THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 


A  story  of  the  Fight ,  which  is  Life  and 
the  Force,  which  is  Love 


By  HENRY  RUSSELL  MILLER 


Wi'th  Illustrations  by 
M.  LEONE  BRACKER 


COPYRIGHT  1910 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE— IRON  ORE 

Ch»pter  Page 

I    KNIGHT  ERRANT i 

II   BOB  LAYS  HOLD  OF  THE  WORLD      ...  10 

III  HE  ENTERS  A  NEW  FIELD         ....  18 

IV  THE  ROAD  TO  POWER         .  32 
V  A  GIRL  AND  A  DECISION     .  40 

VI   THE  POLITICIAN 47 

BOOK  TWO— IN  THE  MOULD 

I   FIVE  YEARS  LATER 57 

II  A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE 64 

III  CHRISTMAS  SCENES 77 

IV  GROWTH  IN  GRACE 93 

V  AN  ALLIANCE  REJECTED            ....  102 

VI  POLITICS 115 

VII   EAVESDROPPING  ;  LIGHT  TO  THE  BLIND          .  132 

VIII  THE  SILVER  TONGUE 143 

IX  THE  LADY  OF  DREAMS       .....  157 

X  DISCONTENT 166 

XI  THE  GAUNTLET 182 

XII  SANGER'S  OFFER 202 

XIII  TEMPTATIONS 216 

XIV  THE  FORCE 228 

XV  THE  ALLIANCE 246 

XVI  THE  FORCE  AT  WORK 262 

XVII  STRATAGEMS 274 

XVIII    THE  BREACH 291 

XIX  THE  POSEUR 305 

XX  SANGER'S  CARD 317 


2137407   ' 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  THREE— THE  MOULDER 

:  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 
II  THE  FORCE— WHICH  is  LOVE 


Chape*r  Page 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  ...        329 


344 

III  ATONEMENT »._ 

IV  THE  PRODIGAL 37I 

V  THE  FALLING  OF  THE  MANTLE         •       •       .       379 

VI  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END    ....       387 
VII  THE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  FORCE    ,  394 


THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 


BOOK  ONE 
IRON    ORE 


THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 


CHAPTER  I 

KNIGHT   ERRANT 

IN  the  heart  of  the  foot-hills,  in  a  basin  where  two 
rivers  meet  to  form  a  mighty  third,  lies  the  Steel 
City.  It  is  not  a  beautiful  city.  It  boasts  its  magnifi- 
cent residences,  stone  and  brick  castles  of  its  many 
millionaires.  Its  citizens  proudly  point  to  its  spacious 
parks,  costly  boulevards  and  stately  public  buildings. 
But  withal  they  admit  its  lack  of  beauty,  resting  its 
claim  to  the  world's  consideration  rather  upon  its 
wealth.  For  the  Steel  City  has  laid  under  tribute  the 
treasures  of  nature  to  feed  its  furnaces,  which  in  turn 
feed  the  industries  of  the  world.  From  the  river  the  fog 
rises,  from  a  thousand  huge  stacks  bituminous  smoke 
belches ;  and  fog  and  smoke,  mingling,  form  a  perennial 
cloud  that  coats  the  city  with  grime  and  soot.  The  roar 
of  its  factories  never  ceases. 

To  see  the  Steel  City  you  must  journey  by  night 
along  its  rivers,  whose  yellow,  placid  waters,  reflecting 
the  lights  of  a  hundred  steamers,  seem  a  field  of  gold 
encrusted  with  diamonds,  rubies  and  emeralds.  Mile 
after  mile,  you  pass  by  mills,  mills,  mills — nothing  but 
mills — magnificent  monuments  to  the  inventive  and 
adaptive  genius  of  man.  Thousands  of  black-faced, 
muscular  Titans  rush  hither  and  thither,  swift,  meth- 

I 


2  THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

odical,  earnest,  single-purposed.  But  even  this 
powerful  army,  levied  from  the  world's  strongest, 
is  pigmy-like  beside  the  marvelous  mechanism,  which 
works,  seemingly,  of  its  .own  will,  unerring,  un- 
faltering, unceasing,  irresistible.  Rivers  of  molten 
metal  flow  beneath  your  gaze.  Massive  ingots  of  white- 
hot  iron,  beyond  the  strength  of  men  to  lift,  swing 
easily  on  the  cranes  from  cast  to  car.  Fiery  serpents  of 
steel  writhe  and  plunge  as  though  obsessed  by  the  spirit 
of  hell  that  broods  over  the  scene,  but  helpless  in  a 
clutch  that  never  relaxes.  An  awful  roar  shakes  the 
earth  to  its  foundations.  An  awful  glare  blinds  the 
unaccustomed  eye.  These  are  the  great  steel  mills, 
grinding,  crashing,  a  miracle  of  power,  the  smithy  of 
the  world.  This  is  the  Steel  City. 

He  was  standing  at  the  window  in  one  of  the  city's 
bleakest  tenements,  a  ragged,  dirty-faced  boy.  In  the 
years  he  remembered  of  his  ten  he  had  known  no  other 
surroundings.  Of  what  went  before,  he  knew — was  to 
know — nothing.  From  without  came  the  sound  of 
shuffling,  uncertain  footsteps.  He  turned  in  an  atti- 
tude of  sullen  expectancy. 

"If  he  licks  me  again,  I'll  run  away,"  he  muttered. 
The  faded  drudge  who  shared  the  room  with  him  nod- 
ded hopelessly. 

The  door  opened  and  the  relic  of  what  had  once 
been  a  man  entered.  "My  felish'tashuns,  ghentle  par'- 
ner  'f  my  jhoysh  an'  shorrowsh,"  he  addressed  the 
woman  in  drunken  irony.  " Wha've  y'  got  t'  eat  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"An'  why  not,  faithful  Penel'pe?  I'll  have  you  know 
I'm  hungry.  By  God!  woman,  I'm  hungry.  Why 
not?" 


KNIGHT  ERRANT  3 

"No  money,"  answered  the  woman,  listlessly,  hope- 
lessly. 

"No  money?  That  remin'sh  me.  Where'sh  that 
Bob.  O,  there  y'are,  y'  little  devil.  You  got  'ny 
money  ?" 

"How'd  I  get  any  money?"  demanded  the  boy  sul- 
lenly. 

"How'd  you  get  shome  money?  Lish'n  t'  that, 
woman,"  the  man  demanded  oracularly.  "Thish  li'l 
brat,  thish  homelesh  outcast  whom  I  'dopted  in  the 
shar'ty  'f  my  heart — thish  objec'  'f  the  philanthr'py 
which  'sh  the  sherished  relic  of  th'  daysh  when  I  wash 
a  ghentleman  an'  wore  purple  an'  fine  linen — thish  un- 
grateful sherpen'  whom  I  took  int'  my  bosh'm  an' 
warmed  an'  clothed  an'  fed — daresh  to  ask,  'How'd  I 
get  'ny  money?'  Thush  he  repaysh  me  f'r  my  hosh- 
p'tal'ty,  boun'lesh,"  he  waved  his  arm  in  all  the  mag- 
nificence of  drunken  oratory,  "boun'lesh  as  the  vasthy 
deep.  Scum  of  th'  earth — offal — I  don'  care  how  y' 
get  th'  money.  Beg  it — shteal  it — it'sh  all  one  t'  me." 

"Ain't  a  beggar.  Ain't  a  thief,"  said  the  boy  dog- 
gedly. 

"Meaning  that  I'm  a  beggar  an'  a  thief?  I'll  have 
you  know,  you  brat,  that  y'  are  addreshin'  a  ghen- 
tl'm'n,  a  ghentl'm'n  'f  misfortune." 

In  a  sudden,  unexpected  movement,  the  drunken 
man  lurched  toward  the  boy  and  with  one  hand  seized 
him  by  the  collar,  with  the  other  he  picked  up  a 
stout  stick.  While  the  woman  looked  on  with  the  dull 
indifference  of  one  who  has  seen  so  much  evil  and 
cruelty  that  all  sensibility  is  deadened,  he  belabored  the 
boy  cruelly,  frenziedly.  For  a  time  Bob  submitted 
to  the  beating  in  a  stoic  silence  horrible  in  such  a  mite 


4  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

of  humanity,  devoting  his  energies  to  the  unsuccessful 
effort  to  dodge  the  descending  stick,  until  a  blow  of 
unusual  force  fell  upon  his  shoulder.  Then  his  dirty 
face  was  distorted  with  pain  and  hate.  His  clenched 
lips  parted  in  the  shrill  scream  of  a  wounded  tiger  cub. 
Quick  as  a  thought,  he  seized  the  hand  that  grasped  the 
stick  and  buried  his  teeth  in  the  flesh  until  they  met  the 
bone.  Uttering  a  howl,  the  drunken  brute  dropped  to 
the  floor,  rolling  in  agony.  The  boy  wasted  no  time 
in  gloating  over  the  downfall  of  his  assailant,  but,  seiz- 
ing a  ragged  cap,  darted  through  the  door.  On  the 
landing  he  paused  for  an  instant  in  his  flight  and,  with 
the  swift  certainty  of  one  who  has  foreseen  the  event 
and  planned  for  it,  pulled  up  a  loose  board  in  the  corner 
and  drew  out  the  sum  total  of  his  worldly  wealth — a 
single  dime.  Then  his  flight  was  resumed. 

He  did  not  cease  running  until  the  tumble-down  ten- 
ement district  was  far  behind  him.  Then  he  set  his 
face  toward  the  down-town  business  section  of  the 
city. 

A  portly  gentleman  of  good-natured  aspect  came  to- 
ward him.  The  boy  boldly  accosted  him. 

"Say,  mister,  where  can  I  buy  some  papers  ?" 

"I've  no  money  for  you,"  answered  the  gentleman 
impatiently. 

"Don't  want  any  money.  Got  all  I  want,"  the  boy 
said  sturdily. 

The  gentleman  laughed.  "That's  more  than  I  have, 
my  youthful  Croesus.  Press  office.  Fifth  Avenue, 
three  blocks  down." 

And  the  boy  trudged  bravely  on  his  way  through  the 
crowded  thoroughfare,  unmindful  of  smarting  shoul- 
ders, his  fortune  grasped  tightly  in  his  fist. 


KNIGHT  ERRANT  5 

The  statement  that  his  fortune  was  carried  in  his  fist 
is  true  in  two  senses  of  the  word.  For  when  he  had 
expended  his  treasure  in  copies  of  that  organ  of  pub- 
licity known  as  the  Press,  with  the  instinct  of  genius 
he  sought  the  most  crowded  corner  of  the  city's  busiest 
avenue.  Here  an  unforeseen  obstacle  met  our  young 
knight  errant.  Hardly  had  he  begun  to  cry  his  wares, 
with  a  boldness  of  mien  born  not  of  experience  but  of 
the  spirit  within  him,  when  another  "newsie,"  who  had 
preempted  the  corner,  swaggered  up  to  him  and 
fiercely  challenged : 

"Say,  kid,  wotcher  doin'  here?" 

"Sellin'  papers,"  said  our  young  friend. 

"Not  much,  yer  don't,  Dis  is  my  stan'.  Take  a 
sneak,  see!" 

"Aw,  go  to  hell !"   And  then  the  fight  began. 

The  assailant  was  the  older  and  bigger,  but  this  was 
a  style  of  argument  with  which  Bob  was  familiar.  In 
his  hard  little  body  was  packed  the  beginning  of  that 
great  strength  which  later  won  him  fame,  so  that  he 
was  a  match  for  his  bigger  antagonist,  sending  as  good 
as  he  received.  He  dealt  his  blows  lustily  and  malic- 
iously, greatly  to  the  delight  of  the  crowd  that 
gathered  to  observe  the  hostilities.  Not  the  least 
interested  was  the  burly,  red- faced  limb  of  the  law  who 
controlled  the  traffic  at  that  corner. 

"My  money  on  the  little  fellow,"  laughed  a  youth  of 
apparent  sporting  proclivities. 

"Shure,"  said  the  policeman,  "an'  ye'll  be  findin'  no 
takers,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"Officer,"  a  woman  cried  indignantly,  while  she 
stared  at  the  little  fighters,  fascinated,  "you  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself.  Pull  them  apart  at  once." 


6  THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

"O,  lave  thim  alone,  ma'am,"  responded  the  guard- 
ian  of  the  public  peace.  "It'll  be  doin'  thim  good." 

"Lord!"  shouted  the  sport,  "see  that  uppercut.  I 
win.  The  little  one  has  him  down." 

The  sport  spoke  truly.  The  combatants  were  pros- 
trate in  the  gutter,  Bob  on  top  and  -pommeling  his 
antagonist's  features  with  an  earnestness  of  purpose 
that  was  inspiring.  At  this  crisis  the  policeman  regret- 
fully recalled  himself  to  duty. 

"That's  enough,  me  son,"  he  declared,  pulling  them 
apart. 

"  'Tain't  enough,"  the  victor  rebelliously  answered, 
a  thin  ribbon  of  blood  streaming  from  his  nose,  the  light 
of  battle  in  his  eye.  "  'Tain't  enough  till  he  says  I  can 
sell  papers  here." 

"Ain't  he  th'  little  divil !"  the  policeman  ejaculated 
admiringly.  "Ye  stay  all  right,  kid.  Ye're  th'  boss 
now.  Show's  over,  frinds.  Move  on." 

And  so,  while  his  late  antagonist  slunk,  sniffling, 
away  to  hide  his  disgrace,  Bob  McAdoo  stayed,  master 
of  the  field  and  convert  to  the  doctrine  of  the  great 
American  specialty — Monopoly.  When  darkness  fell 
that  evening  the  original  dime's  investment  and  a  third 
replenishment  were  sold  out;  and  Bob,  with  a  pocket 
full  of  pennies,  faced  the  responsibilities  of  wealth. 

When  the  policeman  entered  his  home  that  night 
and  faced  his  faithful  spouse,  it  was  with  a  quaking 
spirit. 

"Well,  now,"  his  lady  exclaimed  sarcastically, 
"well,  now,  Pathrick  Flinn,  an'  what  is  this  angel  av 
niarcy  ye  do  be  bringin'  home  th'  night  ?" 

"Shure,  Norah,"  Patrick  apologized,  "  'tis  the  most 


KNIGHT  ERRANT  7 

illigint  little  gamecock  ye  iver  saw.  He  came  to 
me  corrner  this  afthernoon,  a-sellin'  papers.  Th' 
newsie  on  th'  corrner,  a  big  gossoon  what's  always 
bullyin'  th'  little  fellows,  thried  fur  to  chase  him  away. 
An'  what  did  me  little  bantam  do  but  go  afther  that 
big  bully  like  me  sainted  namesake  afther  th'  snakes 
in  th'  ould  counthry.  An'  he  wiped  th'  gutther  clane 
wid  him.  Shure,  'twas  th'  most  buchus  thing  ye  cud 
imagine,  barrin'  bein'  in  a  sim'lar  shindy  yersilf.  An* 
whin  I  was  fur  lavin'  me  corrner,  the  laad  come  up  to 
me  an'  says,  'Say,  mister,  where'll  I  be  findin'  a  place 
to  slape  th'  night  ?'  'Over  beyant  be  th'  river,  there's  a 
lot  av  boxes,'  says  I.  'Aw,  t'ell  wid  boxes,'  says  he,  'it's 
a  bed  I'm  wantin'.'  'An'  what'll  th'  likes  av  ye  be  doin' 
wid  a  bed?'  says  I.  'Slapin',  av  coorse',  says  he.  'I 
nivir  slipt  in  a  bed,  but  I  got  lots  av  money  now  an' 
I'm  wantin'  a  bed  f'r  th'  night.'  'How  ould  arre  ye?* 
I  asks.  'Ten  years/  says  he.  'An'  where  have  ye  been 
livin'?'  'Nowhere;'  says  he.  'Who's  yer  payrints?' 
'Ain't  got  any,'  says  he.  'Who've  ye  been  livin'  wid?' 
'Nobody,'  says  he.  'Shure,  ye're  a  quare  custhomer/ 
says  I.  'An'  who  owns  ye?'  'I  own  mesilf,'  says  he. 
'Thin  come  home  along  av  me  th'  night,'  says  I.  An* 
here  he  is. 

"An'  now,"  Patrick  concluded  sadly,  "he  must  be 
gom',  f'r  there's  no  room  f'r  him  here." 

"Think  shame  to  yersilf,  Pathrick  Flinn,"  Norah 
cried  hotly,  "to  be  thinkin'  av  sendin'  a  poor,  mother- 
liss  little  spalpane  like  him  out  into  the  cold  worruld !" 

While  Patrick  chuckled  within  himself  over  the  suc- 
cess of  his  diplomacy,  Norah  fell  to  her  knees  and  drew 
the  boy  to  her  ample  bosom.  At  which  unaccustomed 


8  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

tenderness,  the  frozen  springs  of  his  childish  heart 
were  melted  and  Bob  burst  into  a  torrent  of  sobs. 

"Husha,  husha,  me  de — arr,"  crooned  Norah. 
"There's  no  nade  to  be  cryin'.  Shure,  ye  arren't  to 
be  lift  alone,  nivirmore,  nivirmore." 

Bob  drew  back  from  her  embrace  and,  stamping  his 
feet,  cried : 

"I'll  never  cry  again — not — another — dam' — time!" 

"Whisht !  ye  little  spalpane !"  Norah  laughed.  "Don't 
ye  be  swearin'." 

"Ain't  he  th'  little  divil !"  Patrick  slapped  his  thighs 
delightedly.  "Bob,  shake  hands  wid  Molly  and  Kath- 
leen— an'  make  yersilf  at  home." 

Bob  obeyed. 

Some  hours  later,  Patrick,  bearing  a  candle  and  ac- 
companied by  Norah,  crept  up-stairs  softly  to  the  spare 
bedroom  where  Bob,  face  downward,  reposed  in  uneasy 
slumber — and  in  a  bed.  Norah  sank  to  her  knees  by 
the  bedside. 

"Th'  poor,  poor  la-ad!"  she  murmured,  laying  her 
hand  gently  on  his  shoulder. 

Bob  groaned  and  in  his  sleep  shrank  from  the  touch. 
The  movement  displaced  the  nightgown — Kathleen's 
— and  disclosed  a  black  and  blue  shoulder. 

"Th'  little  spalpane !"  Norah  whispered  tenderly. 

"It's  not  from  fightin',  I  warrint  ye,"  Patrick  whis- 
pered. "It's  on  his  back." 

"Don't  you  hit  me  again,  Jim  Thompson,"  Bob 
screamed  in  his  dreams.  "When  I'm  big,  I'll  kick  hell 
out  of  you." 

"Th'  little  divil!"  Patrick  whispered  compassion- 
ately. 

"He's  like  Paddy  'ud  'a'  been,"  sobbed  Norah. 


KNIGHT  ERRAXT  9 

"Arrah,  Norah,  darlint,  ye  do  be  makin'  a  fool  av 
yersilf  over  th'  la-ad  that  was  nivir  borrn."  Paddy  was 
the  boy  for  whom  the  Flinns'  hearts  had  always  longed, 
but  who  never  came. 


CHAPTER  II 

BOB    LAYS    HOLD   OF    THE    WORLD 

WITH  deep  satisfaction  of  soul  Bob  opened  his 
eyes  on  a  new  day. 

"I'll  stay  here,"  he  said  aloud. 

And  stay  he  did,  Bob,  in  the  arrogance  of  his  boy- 
ish egotism,  taking  his  welcome  for  granted,  while  to 
the  Flinns,  big-hearted  and  instinctively  hospitable,  it 
never  occurred  to  wonder  at  the  boy's  presumption. 
The  arrangement  thus  tacitly  established  proved  a 
happy  one.  Bob  found  in  the  wholesome,  homely 
atmosphere  of  the  policeman's  family  life  a  partial 
corrective  for  the  dwarfing  influence  of  the  tenement. 
As  for  Patrick  and  his  wife,  had  they  been  told — 
which  they  never  were — that  they  were  exercising  an 
unusual  virtue  in  thus  adopting  the  little  vagrant,  they 
would  have  been  astounded,  such  pride  did  they  take 
in  Bob  from  the  beginning.  And  the  non-appearance 
of  little  Paddy  ceased  to  trouble  their  honest  hearts. 

So  it  was  that  when  Policeman  Flinn  set  out  that 
noon  to  his  duties,  Bob  accompanied  him,  to  revisit 
yesterday's  battle-field  where  henceforth,  by  right  of 
conquest  and  Patrick's  protection,  he  was  to  reign  su- 
preme. And  when  the  day's  work  was  done,  together 
they  returned  home  to  "Irishtown." 

A  few  days  later  their  bonds  were  finally  riveted. 
10 


BOB  LAYS  HOLD  OF  THE  WORLD     i  r 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  the  family  of  Flinn  was 
gathered  in  the  kitchen,  which  was  also  the  living-room. 
The  master  of  this  household,  reclining  in  the  one  big 
arm-chair,  was  seeking  the  ministrations  of  my  lady 
Nicotine,  who,  in  Patrick's  case,  was  a  very  strong  lady 
indeed.  Norah's  head  was  bent  abstractedly  over  a 
basket  of  sewing — no  fine  lady's  embroidery,  but  the 
homelier  task — and  no  mean  one — of  darning  her  lord's 
socks.  Over  the  table  in  the  corner  Bob  counted  the 
earnings  of  the  week.  To  this  task  the  assistance  of 
Molly  and  Kathleen  was  needed,  since,  alas!  Bob's 
notions  of  arithmetical  values  after  the  sum  of  ten  was 
reached  were  hopelessly  vague. 

"Three  dollars  and  fifty-three  cents,"  Kathleen  an- 
nounced proudly. 

"  'Tis  th'  wealth  av  th'  Injies,"  gibed  Patrick.  "I 
s'pose  now,  Bob,  ye'll  be  lavin'  yer  frinds  f'r  th'  mil- 
yunaires  av  th'  East  End,  ye' re  so  rich.  An'  what'll 
ye  be  doin'  wid  so  much  money?  Belike,  ye'll  set  up 
wid  a  bank  here  in  Irishtown.  'Bob  McAdoo,  Banker' 
— it  has  th'  fine,  large  sound  to  it.  Or  betther  still, 
ye'll  kape  a  saloon.  'Twould  be  a  fine  investmint,  that 
last ;  Irishtown  has  a  snakin'  thirrust  f'r  the  crather." 

"He'll  be  layin'  aside  a  bit  av  it,  a  dime  or  a  quarther 
mebby,  f'r  th'  Sisters  whin  they  come,  won't  ye,  Bob  ?" 
Norah  suggested  piously. 

But  Bob  had  planned  other  uses  for  his  money  than 
either  speculation  or  charity.  He  laid  to  one  side  the 
fifty-three  cents  and  gathered  together  the  three  dol- 
lars, which  he  carried  over  to  Norah  and  dropped,  jing- 
ling, into  her  capacious  lap. 

"An' what's  this  for?" 

"Take  it,"  said  Bob. 


12  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Ye  mane  kape  it  f  r  ye?" 

"No,  keep  it  fer  yourself." 

"An'  why  should  I  kape  it  ?"  demanded  Norah. 

"To  pay  fer  me  bed  an'  grub." 

"Away  wid  ye,  ye  little  rapscallion!  Kape  yer 
money,  ye'll  be  nadin'  it  f  r  clothes  an'  th'  like.  Ye  can 
stay  here  without  payin'  yer  way,  an'  welcome." 

"But  that's  char'ty  ain't  it?"  Bob  demanded  di- 
rectly. 

"Well,  yes — sometimes,"  Norah  returned  slowly, 
embarrassed  by  the  straightforward  question.  "But 
not  in  this  case,  whin  it's  frinds  is  givin'  to  ye." 

"Ain't  goin'  to  be  a  char'ty  boy,"  Bob  insisted. 
"Char'ty  boys  gits  licked." 

With  a  sudden  warm  gesture,  Norah  caught  the  boy 
to  her.  "Shure,"  she  exclaimed  compassionately,  "ye 
poor  la-ad,  ye're  not  thinkin'  we're  goin'  to  bate  ye, 
-are  ye,  Bobsy  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered  promptly,  "but  I  got  to  pay." 

"But  why  ?"  Norah  insisted. 

"I  don't  know,"  Bob  returned  slowly,  with  a  puz- 
zled frown,  "I  ain't  a  cheap  skate.  You'll  keep  it, 
won't  you?" 

"Not  a  cint  av  it,"  Norah  declared  flatly. 

Bob  gave  no  answer  to  this  declaration  other  than  to 
collect  the  coins  and  place  them  in  his  pocket.  Then  he 
took  his  cap  from  its  peg  and,  without  a  word  or  back- 
ward glance,  made  for  the  door. 

"Hould  on  there,"  Patrick  cried,  leaping  after  the 
fooy  and  seizing  him.  "Where  arre  ye  goin'?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bob  coolly. 

"Thin  why  arre  ye  lavin'  this  time  av  night?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  find  a  place  where  they'll  let  me  pay." 


BOB  LAYS  HOLD  OF  THE  WORLD  13 

For  a  moment  Patrick  stared  helplessly  at  his  wife, 
and  then  laughed  delightedly.  "Ain't  he  th'  little  divil  t 
Hand  th'  money  to  th'  ould  woman.  Ye  stay,  Bob." 

So  Bob  established  his  footing  and  won  his  second 
battle. 

When  the  money  had  been  put  away,  Norah  sat 
down  once  more  and  surveyed  her  husband  suspi- 
ciously. His  half-closed  eyes  were  gazing  with  intense 
joy  into  the  smoke-cloud,  between  the  puffs  loud  chuck- 
les breaking  from  his  lips,  his  big  body  shaking  with 
merriment. 

"An'  what  be  ye  a-chucklin'  at  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Shure,  Norah,  darlint,  at  th'  way  th'  little  divil 
worruked  roun'  ye,  gettin'  his  way  an'  all,  an'  makin' 
ye  take  th'  money." 

"Humph !"  his  spouse  sniffed  tartly.  "An'  who  arre 
ye  to  be  laughin'  at  me?  Shure,  I  nivir  saw  such  an 
ould  fool  over  annywan  as  ye  are  over  th'  la-ad.  'Tis 
Bob  this  an'  Bob  that,  till  he  has  ye  wrapped  roun' 
his  little  finger.  An'  him  not  a  wake  in  th'  house  yet  \ 
But,"  her  tone  changed  to  one  of  pride,  "it's  fine  stuff 
th'  little  gintlemin's  made  of,  with  his  pride  an'  all." 

"Ain't  a  gentleman,"  Bob  flared  up  unexpectedly 
from  his  corner.  "Jim  Thompson's  a  gentleman  an' 
he's  nothin'  but  a  drunk  bum." 

"Who's  Jim  Thompson?"  Patrick  wanted  to  know. 

"Nobody,"  Bob  answered  sullenly.  And  no  amount 
of  cross-examination  drew  from  him  information  as 
to  his  former  condition  or  the  identity  of  Jim  Thomp- 
son. 

It  was  months  before  Bob's  hatred  and  fear  of 
Thompson  subsided  enough  to  allow  him  to  tell  the 
Flinns  of  his  life  in  the  tenement.  Then  Patrick 


i4  THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

sought  to  find  the  boy's  erstwhile  oppressor;  but, 
luckily  for  Thompson,  it  was  too  late.  The  "gentle- 
man of  misfortune"  had  disappeared  and  with  him 
vanished  the  last  possible  source  of  information  as  to 
the  boy's  origin. 

Years  passed  and  Bob  grew  in  stature,  if  not  in 
wisdom,  viewing  life  from  the  lowly  standpoint  of 
the  newsie,  and  being  thoroughly  spoiled  by  his 
friends.  It  was  strange,  the  matter-of-fact  fashion  in 
which  he  tyrannized  over  Patrick  and  Xorah.  Over 
Molly  and  Kathleen  he  lorded  as  absolutely,  when  he 
-condescended  to  share  their  games.  He  chose  his  com- 
panions to  his  own  taste  and  not  always  wisely,  even 
according  to  lax  Irishtown  standards.  When  not 
busied  at  his  corner,  he  fought  and  bullied  and  led 
them  in  their  games  and  in  their  mischief.  He  was 
the  pride  of  the  corner  loafers  by  reason  of  his  pro- 
pensity and  talent  for  fighting,  and  they  delighted  to 
<egg  him  on  to  combat  with  older  and  larger  antag- 
onists. In  these  fights  Bob  always  came  off  victor. 
Wilful,  masterful,  intractable,  he  caused  much  worri- 
ment  of  soul  to  the  elder  Flinns,  but  neither  had  the 
heart  or  even  the  hardihood  to  chastise  him.  Their 
reproofs,  mildly  administered,  were  received  with  an 
indifference  and  cool  surprise  that  robbed  them  of  all 
possible  good  effect. 

Norah  took  her  trouble,  like  the  good  Catholic  she 
was,  to  Father  O'Brien. 

"It's  not  that  he's  bad,  yer  Riverince,"  she  explained. 
"He's  not  that.  But  he's  so  could  and  mastherful. 
Mebby  if  yer  Riverince  wud  spake  to  th'  laad,  he'd 
mind  his  ways." 

The  priest  spoke  to  him.     What  took  place  at  that 


BOB  LAYS  HOLD  OF  THE  WORLD  15 

interview  has  never  been  told.  Father  O'Brien  came 
from  it  struggling  between  a  frown  and  a  smile. 

"The  boy  is  a  caution,"  he  told  Norah.  "He  has  a 
strange  spirit  for  a  child  so  young,  hard  as  iron.  It 
is  useless,  I  am  afraid,  to  try  to  break  or  mold  it.  I 
don't  understand  how  he  came  by  it,  unless  it  is  the 
result  of  early  brutality  or  rare  courage.  He  is  one  of 
the  few  who  must  be  left  to  work  out  their  own  salva- 
tion. So  don't  try  to  drive  him,  Norah.  If  he's  meant 
for  good,  it  will  work  itself  out." 

With  fear  and  trembling  Patrick  sent  him  to  the 
ward  school.  The  fear  was  justified  by  the  results. 
The  boy  proved  himself  bright  enough  to  master  his 
lessons — when  he  chose.  It  was  rarely,  however,  his 
choice  to  study.  He  preferred  to  fight  and  to  drive 
his  schoolmates  into  mischief.  He  became  the  bully 
of  the  school.  He  was  advanced  rapidly  from  room 
to  room,  because  his  teachers  were  always  in  haste  to 
be  rid  of  the  unwelcome  pupil. 

His  schooling  came  to  an  abrupt  end  when  he  was 
thirteen  years  old.  To  punish  an  unusually  flagrant 
act  of  insurrection  his  teacher  called  in  the  aid  of  the 
principal,  a  stout,  pompous  young  man  who  was  Bob's 
pet  aversion.  The  principal  had  no  more  than  seized 
the  rattan  when  Bob  suddenly  snatched  it  from  him 
and  belabored  the  astonished  pedagogue  with  it  so 
fiercely  that  he  fled  the  room  in  dismay.  Bob  then  took 
his  cap  and  bade  farewell  to  school  for  ever. 

By  this  feat  Patrick  was  at  last  nerved  to  his  duty. 
That  night  he  gave  Bob  a  severe  thrashing,  which  the 
boy,  with  white  face  and  set  teeth,  quietly  endured. 
When  it  was  over,  he  said : 

"I  take  it  this  time,  Pat,  because  it's  from  you.    But 


1 6  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

nobody  will  ever  lick  me  again.  And  now  I'm  through 
with  school  and  papers.  I'm  goin'  to  hunt  a  job." 

"Humph !"  returned  Patrick.  "An5  who'll  be  hirin' 
th'  likes  av  ye,  wid  such  a  ripitashun  f 'r  divilry  ?" 

"O,  I'll  get  a  job,  all  right,"  Bob  declared. 

The  next  day  Bob  entered  the  confines  of  Sanger's 
mills,  boldly  defying  the  legend,  "No  Admittance  Ex- 
cept on  Business/'  and  of  the  first  workman  he  met  in- 
quired how  to  find  "the  boss." 

"The  boss,  is  it?"  said  the  workman.  "You'll  find 
the  foreman  over  there." 

"I  don't  want  the  foreman,"  Bob  answered  con- 
temptuously. "I  want  the  head  boss." 

"Mr.  Sanger?" 

Bob  nodded  affirmatively. 

"You  can't  see  him." 

"O,  yes,  I  can,"  Bob  said  cheerfully.  "Where  is 
he?" 

"He's  in  his  office  on  the  other  side  of  the  works. 
What  do  you  want  of  him  ?" 

"That's  my  business." 

Bob  made  his  way  to  the  office  where  a  cherub  in 
brass  buttons  stood  guard,  and  demanded  to  be  shown 
into  the  great  man's  presence.  He  was  refused.  He 
then  threatened  to  punch  the  cherub's  head  and  evinced 
such  readiness  and  ability  to  put  his  threat  into  execu- 
tion that  the  office  boy  at  last  tremblingly  ushered  Bob 
into  the  presence  of  Mr.  Sanger. 

The  master  met  the  interruption  with  a  scowl. 
"Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  he  rasped  out. 

"You  can  give  me  a  job,"  Bob  suggested. 

"Indeed,  can  I?"  the  man  said  tartly.  "But,  sup- 
pose I  don't?" 


BOB  LAYS  HOLD  OF  THE  WORLD  17 

"I'll  have  to  get  one  somewhere  else  then,"  Bob 
responded  cheerfully. 

Mr.  Sanger  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  "You're 
a  cool  one.  What  can  you  do  ?" 

"Well,"  Bob  said  thoughtfully,  "I  didn't  think  of 
that  I've  scrapped  and  sold  newspapers  mostly,  but 
I  guess  I  can  do  other  things  just  as  good/' 

"Do  you  think  you  could  stand  at  that  door  and 
keep  out  of  this  office  impudent  boys  who  have  no  busi- 
ness here,  for  four  dollars  a  week  ~f' 

"You  bet  I  can." 

"All  right  When  can  you  go  to  work?" 

"Xow,"  Bob  grinned.  "You  might  change  your 
mind  by  to-morrow." 

Bob  was  as  good  as  his  word.  While  he  was  on 
duty,  he  was  a  brave  and  adroit  man  indeed  that 
reached  Mr.  Sanger  s  presence  undesired.  Bob  also  es- 
tablished a  mastery  over  the  force  of  office  boys,  and 
lined  the  refractory  with  such  promptitude  and 
:ty  that  he  reigned  a  very  tyrant  And  from  office 
corridor  to  furnace  and  rolls  was  a  short  step  for  him. 

So  Bob  took  his  place  among  those  who  were  creat- 
ing a  great  industry — an  industry  that  taught  men  to 
think,  to  believe,  to  do  big  things,  that  produced  a 
generation  of  industrial  giants. 

They  lived  intense  lives,  did  those  giants,  driving 
ahead  in  a  blind,  mad  rage  for  conquest  to  produce 
wealth,  to  create  strength.  Even  the  lowliest  of  these 
toilers  made  "big  money" — often  to  be  riotously  dissi- 
pated, alas !  Only  the  fittest  survived. 

And  Bob  survived. 

When  he  came  to  man's  estate,  he  had  learned  the 
hard,  cruel  lesson  of  the  Steel  he  forged. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE   ENTERS   A    NEW    FIELD 

BUT  Bob  was  not  to  conquer  in  the  Empire  of  Steel. 
Squire  Mehaffey — the  Squire  had  married  Molly 
Flinn — was  the  pebble  that  deflected  the  course  of  Bob's 
destiny. 

One  night  this  young  dispenser  of  justice  for  the 
Fourth  Ward  entered  Maloney's  saloon,  white-faced 
and  excited. 

"Whisky,  Mike." 

The  proprietor  placed  a  bottle  before  him.  "What's 
up,  Jim?" 

The  Squire  made  no  answer  other  than  to  seize  the 
bottle  with  trembling  hands  and  pour  out  a  full  glass 
of  the  liquor,  which  he  tossed  off  at  a  gulp. 

"Where's  Bob?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 

"In  there."  Mike's  thumb  indicated  the  back  room 
of  the  saloon.  Thither  Mehaffey  strode.  Before  a 
table  littered  with  beer  and  whisky  bottles  Bob  was 
sitting,  the  one  silent  member  of  a  noisy  group. 

"Where  can  I  see  you  alone?"  the  Squire  interrupted 
without  apology. 

"You  can  see  me  right  here.  Boys — "  At  the  un- 
spoken suggestion  the  group,  with  frank,  matter-of- 
fact  obedience,  gathered  up  their  bottles  and  went  into 
the  bar-room. 

18 


HE  EXTERS  A  NEW  FIELD       19 

"Well?"  Bob  interrogated. 

The  Squire  dropped  into  a  chair.  "Haggin's  turned 
me  down,"  he  announced  despondently. 

"What's  that  mean?" 

"It  means  I  lose  my  job.  He  says  I  can't  run  again. 
He's  going  to  give  my  job  to  Harvey,  just  because  he's 
his  nephew.  After  the  way  I've  slaved  for  him  and 
done  his  dirty  work  in  the  ward  for  ten  years !"  he  ad- 
ded bitterly. 

"What  of  it?"  Bob  asked,  with  no  sign  of  interest. 

"What  of  it !  I  lose  my  only  chance  to  make  a  livin'. 
Here  I  am,  thirty-five  years  old.  I've  got  no  educa- 
tion. I  don't  know  bookkeepin'  nor  anything  else.  I 
can't  clerk.  I  ain't  strong  enough  to  hold  down  a  job 
in  the  mills.  The  old  man  won't  get  me  on  the  pay-roll 
— says  I've  had  enough  and  it's  time  to  take  care  of 
some  of  the  other  boys.  It  ain't  myself  I'm  worryin' 
about.  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  But  how  I'm  to 
make  enough  for  three,  I  don't  see." 

"Three?" 

"Yes,  there's  goin'  to  be  a  baby  soon,  and  I  can't 
see—" 

"Humph!  You  politicians  have  got  no  business 
to  have  kids.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"What  can  I  do?"  Mehaffey  returned  helplessly. 

"You  might  fight  him,"  Bob  suggested. 

The  Squire  looked  aghast  at  the  temerity  of  the  sug- 
gestion. "Fight  Haggin !  What  good  'd  that  do?" 

"I  thought  you  wanted  to  keep  your  job." 

"I  do,  I  do!  But  what  could  I  do  against  him?  I've 
got  no  money — " 

"I'll  give  you  some." 
— and  besides  he's  got  the  ward  organization  and 


20  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

the  pay-roll,  and  the  boys  would  be  afraid  to  buck  up 
against  him.  There  ain't  a  man  in  the  ward  can  beat 
him." 

"O,  ain't  there?"  Bob  held  up  his  whisky  glass  to 
the  light  and  critically  measured  it  before  he  drank  it. 
"Well,  why  do  you  come  to  me  with  your  troubles?" 

"I  thought  maybe  you'd  go  to  him  and  ask  him  to 
keep  me  on." 

"I  won't  do  it,"  Bob  said  shortly. 

"But  you  could.  Haggin's  always  talkin'  about 
what  a  bully  fellow  you  are,  and  you  got  such  a  pull 
with  the  boys  he'd  listen  to  you.  It  ain't  for  me,  Bob," 
the  Squire  pleaded,  "but  for  Molly  and  the  kid  that's 
comin' — " 

"No,"  Bob  repeated  sharply.  "I  won't  ask  that  fat 
bully  for  a  favor  for  anybody." 

"Then  I'm  all  in."  And  the  Squire  dropped  his  head 
on  the  table  and  broke  into  unmanly  sobs.  Which  per- 
formance Bob  surveyed  with  disgust. 

"Aw,  quit  it,  Jim.  Just  because  that  big  saphead  has 
turned  you  down  is  no  reason  to  bawl  like  a  big  baby." 

"It's  easy  for  you  to  talk,"  whimpered  the  Squire. 
"You've  got  a  good  job  and  no  wife  with  a  kid  comin'. 
If  you  were  in  my  place — " 

"If  I  were  in  your  place  I'd  be  a  man,"  Bob  inter- 
rupted harshly.  "I'd  go  in  and  fight  him  and  lick  him 
and  hold  my  job." 

"I  can't,"  groaned  the  Squire. 

"But  I  can,"  Bob  said. 

By  degrees  the  possible  significance  of  Bob's  words 
wormed  its  way  into  the  Squire's  comprehension.  His 
grief  gave  way  to  amazement,  amazement  to  an  in- 
credulous joy. 


HE  ENTERS  A  NEW  FIELD       21 

"You  don't  mean  it,  Bob?" 

"I  always  mean  what  I  say,  don't  I  ?"  Bob  returned 
impatiently.  "Shut  up,  Jim,  I'm  thinking." 

For  some  moments  Bob  stared  at  the  ceiling.  Then 
he  called  out  abruptly : 

"Mike,  come  in  here.  And  bring  the  boys — and 
some  more  whisky." 

Mike  came  in  as  bidden,  bringing  the  liquor,  "the 
boys"  trooping  obediently  in  behind. 

"The  drinks  are  on  me,  boys,"  Bob  said  by  way  of 
preliminary. 

When  every  one  had  taken  his  quota,  he  continued, 
"Boys,  Haggin  has  turned  Jim  down." 

"Well,  I  guess  that  lets  Jim  out,"  said  Mike  pity- 
ingly. 

"That's  tough,"  commiserated  the  boys  in  chorus. 

"I  tell  him,"  Bob  continued,  "that  he  ought  to  fight 
him." 

Mike  shook  his  head.    "It  can't  be  done,  Bob." 

"No,  it  can't  be  done,  Bob,"  echoed  the  chorus. 

"Yes,  it  can,"  Bob  responded  tartly.  "And  I'm 
going  to  do  it." 

An  amazed  silence  fell  upon  the  group.  The  silence 
was  broken  by  Mike's  delighted  ejaculation. 

"Be  th'  poker !  it's  a  fine  scrimmage  we'll  be  havin'. 
If  annywan  can  lick  Haggin,  ye're  th'  bye,  Bob." 

"That  ye  are,"  assented  the  chorus,  awakened  from 
its  wonderment. 

"And  you  boys  are  goin'  to  help  me — that  is,"  Bob 
added  contemptuously,  "unless  you're  afraid  of  Hag- 
gin." 

"We're  not,"  indignantly  denied  the  chorus.  (Hag- 
gin was  absent.) 


22 

"O,  we're  wid  ye,  Bob,"  Mike  promised  gleefully, 
"so  be  ye  give  us  plinty  av  fightin'." 

"All  right.  Be  here  to-morrow  night  and  I'll  tell 
you  what  to  do.  And  bring  the  other  boys  along — as 
many  as  you  can  get.  Come  along,  Jim."  And, 
meekly  followed  by  the  Squire,  who  had  not  yet  re- 
covered from  his  astonishment,  Bob  left  the  saloon. 

In  a  community  like  Irishtown  such  news  travels 
fast.  Before  the  night  was  done,  the  word  had  been 
passed  to  all  the  saloons,  "Bob  McAdoo  is  goin'  to 
fight  Haggin  fer  Squire  Mehaffey." 

Wherefore  Irishtown  lifted  up  its  voice  and  rejoiced. 

Now  Haggin  was  of  a  type  that  with  the  growth 
of  our  large  cities  has  become  a  powerful  influ- 
ence in  civic  affairs,  the  boss  politicians  of  our 
"tough"  wards.  He  had  been  a  prize-fighter,  and  a 
successful  one.  History  records  how  he  fought  a 
twenty-round  draw — bare  fists — with  Donnelly,  heavy- 
weight champion  of  the  world.  At  the  zenith  of  his 
career  he  abandoned  the  ring  and  invested  his  last 
purse  in  an  Irishtown  saloon.  And  Irishtown  counted 
it  an  honor  to  buy  its  drinks  from  the  only  man  that 
had  ever  given  Donnelly  a  hard  fight.  So  that  Haggin 
waxed  prosperous  and  sported  many  diamonds.  It 
was  a  natural  result  of  his  popularity  and  business  that 
he  should  go  into  politics.  He  developed  a  certain 
crude  genius  for  the  game.  He  was  good-natured — 
when  not  opposed.  He  knew  how  to  be  generous, 
when  to  be  generous  was  good  policy.  And  he  learned 
to  organize  his  henchmen.  But  beneath  all  were  his 
fame  and  skill  as  a  fighter.  Consequently  he  became 
the  undisputed  autocrat  of  things  political  in  the 


HE  ENTERS  A  NEW  FIELD      23 

Fourth  Ward.  Its  citizens  were  glad  to  follow  a 
leader  who  was  always  ready  and  able  to  thrash  any 
recalcitrant.  As  boss  of  the  most  populous  ward  in 
the  city  he  was  consulted  by  his  party  leaders  and  came 
to  have  a  decided  voice  in  municipal  affairs  at  large. 
This  in  turn  helped  him  in  the  management  of  his 
ward.  A  choice  handful  of  pay-roll  plums  was 
turned  over  to  him,  and  with  these  he  reinforced  his 
organization.  It  was  popularly  believed  that  Haggin 
was  physically  and  politically  invincible. 

Hence  the  amazement  which  greeted  the  news  that 
Bob  McAdoo  had  inaugurated  a  fight  against  the  "old 
man."  When  Haggin  heard  of  it,  he  laughed. 

"Aw,  hell!  what  can  that  kid  do?"  he  grunted  dis- 
dainfully. 

Fortunately  for  Bob,  his  fight  was  cast  among  people 
who  took  their  politics  as  they  took  their  whisky: 
straight.  During  campaign  time  they  ate,  drank, 
moved  and  dreamed  in  an  atmosphere  charged  with 
political  electricity.  And  they  loved  a  fight,  with  all 
the  sturdy,  brave,  pugnacious  souls  of  them.  More- 
over, the  odds  were  against  him.  Now  the  average 
American — especially  the  Irish-American — loves  fair 
play  and  has  a  sneaking  admiration  for  the  under  dog. 
Then  Bob  already  had  a  certain  personal  following, 
which  nucleus  he  began  systematically  to  augment. 

There  were  in  this  campaign  no  great  mass  meet- 
ings, no  resounding  oratory,  no  gorgeous  processions 
with  transparencies  and  banners.  Haggin  was  too  old 
a  hand  at  the  game  not  to  know  the  worthlessness  of 
these  features  in  his  community,  and  Bob  had  no  taste 
for  such  "grandstand  plays."  But  there  were  gather- 
ings in  sundry  upper  and  rear  rooms,  where  the  cup 


24  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

passed  unrestrictedly  and  the  proceedings  developed 
into  bacchanalian  orgies  that  would  have  done  credit 
to  the  ancients.  And  what  money  Bob  could  scrape 
together  was  turned  over  to  the  Squire  to  use  "where 
it  would  do  the  most  good."  Most  effective  of  all, 
there  was  organization,  scientific  distribution  of  the 
McAdoo  forces ;  it  was  Bob's  name  and  personality  that 
gave  the  fight  significance.  There  was  first  the  execu- 
tive committee,  consisting  of  Bob,  Patrick  and  Mehaf- 
fey.  Then  each  precinct  had  its  captain,  and  he  his 
lieutenants,  whose  duties  were  to  canvass  their  respec- 
tive territories  and  make  report  thereon  to  head- 
quarters. 

And  soon  Bob's  fight  assumed  formidable  propor- 
tions and  the  fame  of  it  spread  abroad  throughout  the 
city. 

"This  young  McAdoo  of  the  Fourth  is  a  corker," 
said  the  great  MacPherson.  "Of  course,  Haggin  '11 
beat  him ;  the  old  grafter  has  too  strong  a  grip  on  his 
ward  to  lose  this  time.  But  the  youngster  will  bear 
watching  in  the  future." 

"By  God!  this  is  a  fight!"  Haggin  exclaimed,  when 
reports  began  to  come  in  to  him. 

But  the  fight  came  to  a  most  unexpected  ending. 

Bob  not  only  directed  the  manceuvers  of  his  little 
.rmy,  but  himself  took  an  active  part  on  the  skirmish 
line.  It  was  his  nightly  habit  to  go  around  the  saloons 
where,  after  "setting  'em  up,"  he  would  say :  "Boys, 
I  want  you  to  vote  for  the  Squire."  And  few  there 
were  who  dared  other  than  give  the  desired  promise. 
In  many  cases,  of  course,  the  promise  was  given  with 
no  intention  of  fulfilment.  Nevertheless  many  a  firm 
adherent  was  thus  gained. 


HE  ENTERS  A  NEW  FIELD       25 

These  excursions  were  not  confined  to  the  saloons 
of  his  allies,  but  were  boldly  carried  into  the  strong- 
holds of  the  enemy,  who,  bound  to  Haggin  as  they 
were  by  ties  of  interest,  would  have  preferred  to  cast 
Bob  out,  but  dared  neither  to  deny  him  admittance 
nor  to  criticize  to  his  face  the  actions  of  the  young 
giant  for  whose  fists  they  had  such  wholesome  respect. 
It  was  even  rumored  that  he  proposed  to  invade  the 
great  Haggin's  saloon  on  the  same  errand.  The  rumor 
raised  in  Irishtown's  heart  the  most  blissful  of  antici- 
pations. It  also  came  to  the  ears  of  Haggin. 

The  second  night  before  the  primaries,  Irishtown 
was  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement.  The  saloons  were 
crowded,  the  streets  alive  with  eager,  expectant  men 
and  boys.  A  reporter  of  one  of  the  morning  papers 
entered  Maloney's  saloon  arid  accosted  Bob,  who  stood 
at  the  bar  talking  to  a  group  of  his  workers. 

"Mr.  McAdoo,"  said  the  reporter,  "I  represent  the 
Gazette.  How  do  you  think  the  ward  is  going?" 

"Find  out  for  yourself,"  Bob  answered  curtly.  But 
the  reporter,  after  the  fashion  of  his  kind,  was  in- 
sistent. 

"I  hear,"  he  continued  with  what  was  meant  as  an 
ingratiating  smile,  "that  you  intend  visiting  Haggin's 
saloon." 

"An  ass,"  Bob  answered  dryly,  amid  the  guffaws  of 
his  followers,  "havin'  long  ears,  can  hear  a  lot  that 
ain't  his  business." 

The  reporter  flushed  angrily.  "I  told  the  same  thing 
to  Haggin,"  he  said  spitefully,  "and  he  said  if  you 
entered  his  saloon  he'd  kick  you  out.  'Knock  the 
damned  stiff's  block  off,'  were  his  exact  words,  I  be- 
lieve." 


26  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

The  crowd  stood  aghast.    It  was  a  challenge. 

"Is  that  so?"  Leisurely  Bob  emptied  his  bottle  of 
beer  and  then,  without  a  word,  left  the  saloon. 

A  few  there  were,  though  not  a  sober  man  among 
them,  wrho  did  not  follow  Bob  that  night,  and  ever 
afterward  they  regretted  the  indulgence  that  'deprived 
them  of  the  sight  of  what  ensued.  The  rest  silently 
followed  him  at  a  respectful  distance,  torn  between 
delight  and  fear. 

Haggin  sat  in  the  rear  room  of  his  saloon,  trying 
to  maintain  a  conversation  with  some  of  his  lieuten- 
ants, a  difficult  matter  because  of  the  tumult  in  the 
outer  room.  Suddenly  the  clamor  received  a  per- 
ceptible accession,  then  instantly  ceased,  blank  silence 
enveloped  the  saloon — a  painful,  uncanny  silence 
through  which  the  ticking  of  the  big  clock  pierced  in- 
sistently, threateningly.  Haggin  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  rushed  to  the  door.  There  he  stopped  short,  pet- 
rified by  amazement  at  the  sight  before  him.  For  there 
by  the  bar,  in  the  midst  of  an  awe-struck,  dazed 
crowd,  towered  Bob  McAdoo. 

Bob  calmly  struck  a  match  and  lighted  his  cigar. 
"Line  up,  boys,"  he  commanded. 

Slowly,  mechanically,  as  under  a  compulsion  they 
could  not  resist,  the  men  moved  to  the  bar. 

"What'll  you  have?  This  is  on  Jim  Mehaffey, 
boys." 

Not  a  man  dared  to  name  his  drink. 

"Humph !"  Bob  sneered.  "Whisky  for  mine.  The 
best  in  the  house,  barkeep,"  he  ordered  sharply.  The 
bartender  moved  fearfully  to  obey. 

Then  Haggin  came  to  himself.  With  a  low  growl 
he  sprang  in  front  of  Bob,  who  nonchalantly  looked 


HE  ENTERS  A  NEW  FIELD       27 

him  over  as  though  the  mighty  Haggin  were  a  helpless 
invalid,  the  crowd  instinctively  falling  back  to  leave 
space  around  the  two  men. 

"Not  a  drink  d'ye  get  in  this  house,  Bob  McAdoo," 
Haggin  raged.  "Not  a  drink,  d'ye  hear?  An'  git  out 
o'  this  saloon — quick,  see!" 

Bob's  only  answer  was  to  take  the  bottle  from  the 
bartender's  uncertain  hand,  pour  himself  a  liberal  por- 
tion, and  swallow  it  at  a  gulp.  Then  he  seized  a  glass 
of  water  and  tossed  its  contents  full  into  Haggin's 
face. 

The  crowd  breathed  painfully. 

Haggin  dashed  the  water  from  his  eyes  and  shook 
his  great  fist  before  Bob's  face.  "D'ye  know  what  that 
means,  Bob  McAdoo?"  he  roared.  "It  means  you  got 
to  fight." 

"All  right,"  Bob  responded  cheerfully.  "That's 
what  I'm  here  for." 

Then  began  Bob's  last  fist  fight,  a  battle  which  still 
lives  unparalleled  in  Irishtown  annals. 

Man  for  man,  in  point  of  size,  weight  and  courage, 
the  two  were  equally  matched.  On  Haggin's  side  there 
was  the  advantage  of  superior  science  and  the  cool  gen- 
eralship of  the  trained  boxer.  But  Bob  was  the  born 
fighter  and  his  muscles  were  hard  and  elastic  as  the 
steel  whose  forging  had  developed  them,  whereas  his 
antagonist  had  been  years  out  of  training.  Amid  a 
tense  silence,  broken  only  by  the  shuffling  of  their  feet, 
they  faced  each  other  and  began  the  combat.  Coolly, 
warily,  savagely  they  fought,  two  splendid  brutes, 
beasts  of  prey  thirsting  for  each  other's  blood.  After 
a  few  feints  and  passes  Haggin  dropped  into  his  fam- 
ous "crouch"  and  assumed  the  offensive,  the  favorite 


28 

tactics  that  had  won  him  many  a  hardfought  battle. 
His  great  hands  and  arms  shot  out  and  back  with 
the  speed  and  force  of  a  piston  rod,  landing  on  Bob's 
face  and  body  blows  that  would  have  felled  a  lighter  or 
less  hardened  man.  Bob  met  him  squarely,  receiving 
the  punishment  without  flinching  and  watching  nar- 
rowly for  an  opening.  Against  the  skilful  guard  of 
the  ex-prize-fighter  his  own  lunges,  powerful  though 
they  were,  could  make  little  impression.  Suddenly 
Haggin  feinted,  then  brought  his  right  crashing  to 
Bob's  temple.  For  an  instant  Bob  was  numbed  and 
blinded  with  pain.  Then  all  feeling  of  hurt  left  him. 
He  saw  as  though  a  red  film  had  been  lowered  before 
his  eyes.  His  thin  lips  drew  back  cruelly  and  he 
pressed  forward  to  meet  the  onslaught  of  Haggin,  who 
had  thought  to  finish  him  with  one  more  blow.  There 
was  a  short,  fierce  interchange,  then — no  one  knew 
just  how  it  happened — it  was  all  over.  Haggin  the 
mighty  lay  on  the  floor,  helpless  and  groaning,  his  head 
rolling  from  side  to  side  in  the  futile  effort  to  raise 
himself. 

"Bring  some  water,"  Bob  ordered  sharply. 

The  bartender  brought  a  bucketful,  with  which  Bob 
carelessly  deluged  his  prostrate  antagonist.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  bar. 

"The  boys'll  take  another  round  of  the  same  they 
ordered  before,"  he  said  in  dry  sarcasm. 

The  spell  was  broken.  The  crowd  of  men  who  had 
in  awed  silence  watched  the  combat,  fascinated  by  the 
display  of  primitive  brutality,  now  awoke  to  a  savage 
shout  of  triumph,  as  though  the  victory  were  theirs. 
McAdoo  followers  and  Haggin  adherents  alike,  they 
cheered  the  victor,  each  trying  to  shake  his  hand — a 


HE  ENTERS  A  NEW  FIELD       29 

familiarity  which  he  coldly  denied  them  and  for  the 
refusal  of  which  they  strangely  admired  him  the  more. 
Haggin,  staggering  to  his  feet,  looked  on  dumbly,  un- 
comprehendingly. 

"What — what's  the  matter?"  he  muttered  thickly. 

"Ye're  licked,  Tom  Haggin!  Bob  McAdoo  licked 
ye !"  they  yelled  derisively. 

"Ye  didn't  lick  me.  Ye  never  licked  me,  Bob  Mc- 
Adoo— My  God!"  His  voice  rose  to  a  loud  shriek, 
the  agonized  cry  of  a  monarch  who  sees  his  kingdom 
for  ever  departed  from  him. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  Bob  said  sternly.  "And  if  you  want 
more  of  the  same,  come  on." 

But  Haggin  did  not  come  on.  He  took  one  step 
toward  Bob,  then  a  new,  unfamiliar  sensation  entered 
his  heart — fear,  fear  of  the  big,  young  man  who  stood 
before  him.  He  felt  the  change  in  the  atmosphere 
around  him.  And  he  knew  that  he — Haggin  the 
feared,  the  terrible,  the  unconquered — was  indeed  and 
at  last  "licked." 

"My  God!"  he  groaned  hoarsely,  "ye  did  lick  me!" 
Then  in  a  pitiful  attempt  to  gather  the  tatters  of  his  lost 
prestige  around  the  nakedness  of  his  defeat,  he  yelled 
again,  "But  ye  could  never  'a'  done  it  when  I  was  in 
trainin'.  Ye  never  could." 

A  derisive  shout  went  up.  "Ha!"  sneered  one,  an 
erstwhile  supporter,  "it's  easy  enough  to  say  that  now, 
when  there's  no  chance  o'  provin'  it." 

With  the  bellow  of  a  mad  bull  Haggin  sprang 
toward  the  speaker — who  fled  the  saloon.  The  ex- 
pugilist,  grim  and  desperate,  turned  to  the  crowd. 

"Come  on,  ye  dogs !  Bob  McAdoo's  licked  me.  But 
ye  hain't.  An'  ye  can't — none  o'  ye,  all  o'  ye!  If 


30  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

there's  any  thinks  he  can,  come  on,  as  many  as  ye  like, 
an'  I'll  show  ye!" 

"Right!"  said  Bob  contemptuously.  "I  judge  you 
can  handle  about  a  dozen,  Haggin.  If  more'n  that 
comes,  I'm  with  you." 

But  none  came. 

The  next  was  the  hardest  and  the  greatest  moment 
in  Haggin's  life.  Under  the  bully  was  hidden  a  crude 
manhood.  He  turned  to  his  conqueror  and  said  slowly : 

"Ye  licked  me,  Bob  McAdoo,  fair  an'  square.  That 
goes.  Ye're  the  only  man  as  ever  done  it.  There  ain't 
another  man  in  the  city  can  do  it.  Shake!" 

"Sure,"  said  Bob  heartily,  grasping  the  outstretched 
hand. 

"The  drinks  is  on  me,"  Haggin  continued  painfully, 
thus  completing  the  public  acknowledgment  of  his  de- 
feat as  required  by  Irishtown  etiquette. 

While  the  drinks  were  being  poured  and  consumed, 
Bob  took  Haggin  by  the  arm  and  led  him  into  the  rear 
room,  whither  many  a  longing  glance  was  cast,  but 
none  dared  follow. 

"Haggin,"  he  said  gruffly,  "you're  a  man.  What's 
the  use  of  you  and  me  fightin'.  I  can  lick  you  after 
to-night — that's  right,  ain't  it?" 

"That  goes,"  Haggin  assented. 

"When  I  went  into  this  political  game,"  Bob  con- 
tinued, "it  was  to  help  the  Squire  out.  But  I  like  it, 
and  I'm  in  it  to  stay  now — for  myself.  I've  got  you 
licked  this  time.  I  can  go  on  lickin'  you  if  I  have  to, 
but  I  don't  want  to  have  to.  Now  what's  the  matter 
with  me  and  you  hangin'  together  in  this  deal.  Be- 
tween us  we  can  hold  this  ward  so  no  one  can  hurt  us. 
What  do  you  say  ?" 


HE  ENTERS  A  NEW  FIELD       31 

"Shake  again,"  said  Haggin  huskily.  "You're  a 
man." 

Thus  Haggin  was  conquered  and  became  Bob's 
faithful  retainer.  Not  that  any  romantic  sentiment 
stirred  in  his  brutal  heart.  It  was,  at  least  in  the  be- 
ginning, merely  the  primitive  idea  of  submission  owed 
by  strength  to  proved  superior  strength;  and  the 
knowledge  that,  the  prestige  of  his  physical  supremacy 
gone,  his  only  hope  for  continued  political  preferment 
lay  in  alliance  with  his  conqueror. 

The  Squire  was  renominated  and  later  reflected 
without  opposition. 

When  Bob  returned  home  on  the  night  of  his  fight, 
he  was  awaited  by  Patrick,  who  had  heard  the  great 
news  long  before. 

"Shure,  'tis  th'  grand  bye  ye  arre  wid  yer  fists,"  he 
exclaimed  admiringly,  seizing  Bob's  hand.  "  'Tis  a 
hayroe  ye'll  be  in  th'  warrud  now." 

"Let  up  on  that,  Pat,"  Bob  rasped  out.  "D'you 
think  I  want  to  be  known  for  nothin'  but  fightin'." 

"Bedad !"  Patrick  insisted  stoutly.  "An'  what  bet- 
ther  could  ye  be  known  f 'r  ?" 

"Brains,"  Bob  answered  shortly.  "Let's  get  some 
raw  meat  for  this  eye." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  ROAD  TO  POWER 

THE  lure  of  politics  had  caught  Bob.  From  the 
night  of  his  fight  with  Haggin  he  began  to  take 
the  game  seriously,  devoting  much  time  and  work  to 
the  perfection  of  his  organization.  A  few  months  later 
the  new  field  suddenly  opened  wider  before  him.  An 
era  of  "reform"  was  impending. 

Now  the  Steel  City  was  ruled  by  what  was  popularly 
and  appropriately  denominated  the  "hog  combine" — 
a  group  of  gentlemen,  headed  and  herded  by  Steele 
and  Harmon,  voluntarily  associated  to  relieve  the  pub- 
lic of  the  burden  of  government.  The  city  was  over- 
whelmingly Republican,  had  been  so  ever  since  it  re- 
turned its  famous  majority  for  Lincoln.  Religiously, 
twice  a  year,  its  busy  citizens  cut  their  breakfasts  short 
by  ten  minutes,  went  forth  to  save  the  nation  by  voting 
the  Republican  ticket,  and  rested  from  these  exhaust- 
ing political  labors  \vith  a  sense  of  duty  fulfilled.  It 
mattered  little  that  the  most  of  them  could  not  have 
told  you  the  names  on  their  ballots  and  knew  naught  of 
the  motive  power  behind  the  candidates.  They  had 
voted  a  "straight"  party  ticket;  all  political  good  lay 
in  the  Republican  party;  ergo,  they  had  done  all  that 
could  be  expected  of  an  honest  but  busy  citizen. 

While  Steele,  a  born  political  strategist  and  a  man  of 

32 


THE  ROAD  TO  POWER  33 

magnetic  personality,  the  heart  and  brains  of  the  or- 
ganization, lived,  the  machine  found  smooth  sailing. 
But  the  "combine"  fell  upon  hard  times.  Steele  died 
and  the  leadership  devolved  upon  Harmon.  Harmon 
possessed  none  of  the  personal  magnetism  that  had 
made  Steele's  critics  love  the  man  while  they  hated  his 
misdeeds;  also  he  lacked  the  sagacity  and  caution  of 
the  dead  leader.  So  the  machine  was  allowed  to  fall 
into  excesses  that  Steele  never  would  have  permitted. 
The  tenderloin  ran  openly  and  flagrantly.  A  big 
boodling  escapade  in  the  halls  of  the  City  Fathers 
came  to  light.  Certain  public  contracts  were  let  with 
such  incautious  unfairness  that  murmurs  of  discontent 
began  to  be  heard.  Thus  even  to  the  busy  citizens'  nos- 
trils came  a  strong  odor  of  putridity.  All  this  might 
have  had  no  important  results  of  itself ;  but  to  cap  the 
climax  Harmon,  to  satisfy  a  long  cherished  dislike, 
dismissed  MacPherson  from  the  directorate  of  public 
works. 

MacPherson  was  a  hatchet-faced,  saturnine  votary 
of  Mammon.  Also  there  was  enough  of  the  Indian  in 
him  to  make  revenge  for  all  affronts  a  necessity.  He 
accepted  his  dismissal  with  apparent  equanimity,  and 
instituted  a  campaign  to  destroy  his  enemy.  He 
worked  upon  the  discontent  of  some  old-time  ringsters 
who  hated  Harmon  for  his  arbitrary  manner  and  who 
had  seen,  to  their  deep  chagrin,  certain  ripe  and  lus- 
cious plums  fall  into  other  mouths.  A  sturdy  little 
band  of  reformers  that  had  fought  long  but  fruitlessly 
to  overthrow  Steele's  defenses  suddenly  and  myste- 
riously took  a  new  lease  on  life.  MacPherson  bought 
a  morning  and  an  evening  newspaper;  sensational  ex- 
posures followed  startling  revelations  with  great  effect. 


34  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

The  city  began  to  stir  uneasily.  One  day  MacPherson 
called  a  few  men  into  his  office. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "let  us  reform  the  city." 

And  thereupon  the  "Citizens'  Party"  was  formed. 

So  it  happened  that  one  evening  Bob  received  a  call 
from  Robbins,  a  MacPherson  henchman  who  had  the 
reputation  of  knowing  how  to  deal  with  all  sorts  of 
men. 

"McAdoo,"  Robbins  greeted  him,  "without  beating 
round  the  bush,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  after.  I  come 
from  Mack.  We  want  you  with  us  in  our  fight  against 
Harmon  and — " 

"All  right,"  Bob  interrupted  carelessly,  "tell  Mac- 
Pherson I'll  talk  to  him  any  time  he  says." 

"But  I  have  authority — " 

"I  don't  talk  to  middlemen,"  Bob  said  curtly. 
"Good  night." 

"All  right,"  Robbins  laughed.    "You're  the  doctor." 

The  next  evening  Bob  was  by  appointment  shown 
into  MacPherson's  down-town  office.  Besides  the  pros- 
pective boss  there  were  in  the  office  Robbins  and  Gra- 
ham, the  independents'  candidate  for  mayor.  Mr. 
Graham  was  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a  pretty  com- 
plexion, white  mutton-chop  whiskers  and  shapely, 
beautifully  manicured  hands.  He  thought  he  was  a 
reformer  and  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school. 

"How  are  you,  McAdoo?"  MacPherson  greeted 
the  new-comer  with  a  cordiality  cleverly  toned  down  to 
fit  the  man  he  saluted.  "Shake  hands  with  Mr.  Gra- 
ham. You  have  met  Robbins,  I  believe.  Mr.  Graham, 
this  is  the  young  leader  of  the  Fourth  whom  we're 
hoping  to  have  with  us." 

Bob  maliciously  caught  Graham's  ladylike  hand  in 


THE  ROAD  TO  POWER  35 

his  own  iron  grasp  and  squeezed  it  until  the  little  man's 
eyeballs  rolled  in  agony.  When  he  let  go,  the  injured 
member  was  quickly  placed  behind  its  owner's  back, 
as  though  it  feared  once  more  to  be  caught  in  that  cruel 
vise. 

"You  have  a  strong  grip,  Mr.  McAdoo — an  abnor- 
mally strong  grip,  if  I  may  say  so,  sir.  But,"  he  re- 
called the  effusively  patronizing  manner  that  he 
thought  so  highly  politic,  "I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  my 
dear  sir,  very  glad  indeed.  I  am  glad  to  meet  all  those 
who  are  helping  me  in  my  fight.  I  may  say  it  has  been 
with  no  inconsiderable  inconvenience  that  I  have  con- 
sented to  lead  in  this  great  reform.  But  I  have  refused 
to  permit  personal  considerations  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
manifest  duty.  I  am  for  political  purity,  sir.  I  always 
explain  my  position  to  all  my  prospective  lieutenants. 
I  propose  to  conduct  this  campaign  along  strictly 
proper  lines.  In  the  past  the  methods  of  the  tough 
wards,  applied  to  gentlemen  in  politics,  may  have — " 
He  stopped  suddenly,  warned  by  a  sharply  monitory 
cough  from  Robbins. 

Bob  grinned  sardonically.  "O,  don't  mind  me.  I'm 
tough,  all  right,  but  don't  mind  me." 

Mr.  Graham's  blush  might  have  been  envied  by  a 
young  girl.  "My  dear  sir,  I — er — apologize.  Pray 
do  not  misunderstand.  My  remarks  do  not,  of  course, 
apply- 

"Don't  mention  it,"  Bob  interrupted.  "In  tough 
wards  men  don't  apologize.  You're  goin'  to  run  this 
campaign  yourself  ?" 

"And  why  not?"  Graham  once  more  mounted  his 
parlor  hobby.  "Should  not  the  candidate  always  be 
the  leader  ?  Are  we  not  working  for  a  bossless  era,  in 


36  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

which  the  leader  will  be  where  he  belongs — in  the  front 
rank  under  the  folds  of  our  standard?'' 

"Sure!  Why  not?"  Bob  rejoined.  "Go  ahead  and 
try  it.  It'll  be  quite  an  experiment.  I'll  be  interested 
in  watchin'  it — from  the  outside." 

"Surely  not  from  the  other  side,"  Robbins  suggested 
smilingly. 

"From  the  winning  side,"  Bob  answered  dryly. 

"Well,  of  course — "  Mr.  Graham  stammered.  "Of 
course — er — that  is — ahem! — I  do  not  propose  to — er 
• — dictate  tactics  to  my  assistants.  We  may  have  to  re- 
sort to  disagreeable  means  to  gain  our  great  end.  We 
must,  if  necessary,  fight  the  devil  with  fire — that's  it, 
fight  the  devil  with  fire." 

"Humph !"  Bob  grunted. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  Graham  concluded  briskly,  "I 
must  leave  you.  My  wife  and  I  are  dining  out  and  I 
am  already  late.  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you,  Mr. 
McAdoo."  He  added  this  from  a  safe  distance,  his 
hands  behind  him.  With  a  bow,  nicely  delivered,  he 
left  the  room. 

"What  do  you  think  of  him,  McAdoo?"  Robbins 
queried. 

"He's  a  curiosity.  I'd  like  to  take  him — in  a  glass 
case,  with  a  sign,  'Hands  off' — down  to  Tom's  saloon, 
and  show  him  to  the  boys.  Why'd  you  take  him  up?" 
he  demanded  of  MacPherson,  who  had  watched  the 
foregoing  scene  with  ill-concealed  impatience. 

That  worthy  looked  sharply  at  Bob  before  respond- 
ing. "He  carries  along  the  old  reform  crowd — and 
he'll  contribute  his  money." 

"I'd  prefer  to  work  for  a  man,"  Bob  said  contempt- 
uously. 


THE  ROAD  TO  POWER  37 

"Well,  are  you  coming  along  or  not?" 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  MacPherson,  "we're  going 
to  clean  the  city  of  this  gang  of  infernal  scoundrels — " 

"Talk  business.  I'm  not  Graham,"  Bob  interrupted 
impatiently. 

"I  know  that,"  MacPherson  answered  sharply.  "I'm 
not  preaching  reform.  I  mean,  we're  going  to  knock 
Harmon  and  his  crowd  out  of  control  of  the  organiza- 
tion and  the  city  and  take  them  ourselves." 

"D'you  mean  that  ?"  Bob  demanded  keenly.  "Or  are 
you  only  goin'  to  fight  them  until  they  let  you  to  the 
trough,  and  then  you  go  back  on  them  that  helped 
you?" 

MacPherson's  sallow  cheeks  burned  to  a  brick  red ; 
his  little  eyes  glittered  venomously.  He  brought  his 
clenched  fist  hard  down  on  the  desk.  "So  help  me 
God !  I  mean  it.  I'm  going  to  see  that  dog  dead  and 
buried  politically,  if  it  takes  every_  dollar  I  have  in  the 
world." 

"That's  all  right.    But  can  you  do  it?" 

"We  can,"  MacPherson  said,  more  quietly.  "We've 
got  the  money,  and  we've  gone  over  the  ground  care- 
fully. Here,  Robbins,  you  have  the  figures." 

From  memory  and  with  a  glib  certainty  that  be- 
spoke careful  study  of  the  situation,  Robbins  reeled  off 
a  list  of  putative  majorities,  to  which  Bob  listened 
thoughtfully. 

"You  see,"  Robbins  summed  up  eagerly,  "this  gives 
us  all  the  upper  wards,  sure.  They're  all  worked  up 
over  there.  We  come  to  Irishtown  with  an  easy  five 
thousand  majority.  And  we'll  about  break  even  on  all 
the  Irishtown  wards  but  the  Fourth,  Seventh,  Thir- 


38  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

teenth  and  Fourteenth.  That  brings  us  to  you.  If  we 
get  the  Fourth — by  its  usual  majority — we  can't  lose. 
If  we  don't  get  it,  we  may  win  anyhow.  That's  what 
we  want  you  for.  Some  of  us  advised  going  to  Hag- 
gin,  but  I  said,  'No,  McAdoo's  the  man.'  You'd  bet- 
ter get  your  horn  and  climb  on  the  band-wagon,"  he 
concluded  laughingly. 

Bob  smoked  thoughtfully  a  few  minutes. 

"Well?"  he  said  at  last  suggestively. 

"I  guess  this  is  where  Mack  comes  in  again,"  Rob- 
bins  grinned. 

"There's  five  thousand  in  it  for  you,"  MacPherson 
said,  "if  you  get  us  the  Fourth.  And  five  thousand 
more  if  you  get  the  other  three.  Besides  expenses. 
That's  fair,  I  think.  Or,  if  you  prefer,  a  lieutenancy 
on  the  force.  The  pickings  to  be  for  yourself.  What 
do  you  say?" 

"No  office  in  mine,"  said  Bob.    "I'll  think  it  over." 

"I'd  like  to  hear  you  say  yes  now." 

"No,  I'll  think  it  over,"  Bob  repeated  coldly.  "I 
don't  know  as  I  care  to  get  in  your  wagon." 

Perhaps  MacPherson  caught  a  hint  of  contempt  in 
the  slight  accent  on  "your."  Whatever  the  cause,  once 
more  the  brick-red  surged  into  his  cheeks  and  the  ven- 
omous glitter  into  his  eyes.  "It  won't  pay  you  to  stay 
out,"  he  said,  in  half  threat. 

Bob  laughed  insolently.  "I'm  not  afraid  of  you. 
You  see,  you've  showed  me  your  hand.  You  can't 
do  without  me." 

MacPherson  with  difficulty  repressed  an  angry  re- 
tort, and  Bob  left  the  office  with  a  curt,  "Good  night." 

Before  he  descended  to  the  street — MacPherson's 
office  was  on  the  top  floor  of  an  eight-story  building, 


THE  ROAD  TO  POWER  39 

the  skyscraper  of  those  days — he  stopped  to  look 
out  through  the  corridor  window.  It  was  one  of  the 
Steel  City's  rarely  beautiful  nights.  A  strong  west 
wind  had  swept  away  the  dome  of  smoke  and  overhead 
a  myriad  of  stars  shone  brilliantly.  And  below  him 
and  on  the  hills  around  him  twinkled  a  myriad  of  other 
lights,  the  street  lamps  of  the  big  city.  Bob  knew  that 
beyond  the  hills  and  across  the  rivers  many  more  such 
lamps  were  burning,  lighting  the  night  for  a  half  mil- 
lion souls!  And  of  the  half  million  two  men  were 
struggling  with  each  other  for  mastery  over  all  the 
rest.  The  half  million  indifferently  watched  the  game 
and  permitted  it  to  go  on ! 

"You  fools!" 

Yet  the  thought  came  to  him  that,  fools  though  the 
victims  were,  between  the  contestants  it  was  a  game 
worth  playing.  To  hold  the  great  city  in  the  hollow 
of  one's  hand,  to  twist  it  and  buffet  it  and  mock  it  and 
use  it,  to  make  of  it  a  huge  automatic  engine  to  lift  one 
to  a  chosen  eminence!  Yes,  that  was  a  game  for  a 
man,  for  a  strong  man! 


CHAPTER  V 

A   GIRL   AND   A   DECISION 

HENRY  SANGER,  Sn,  steel  king,  had  one 
passion — his  business;  and  one  love — an  or- 
phaned niece.  He  Displayed  less  acumen  in  the  train- 
ing of  the  latter  than  in  the  management  of  the  former. 
He  had  also  a  wife — but  that  was  of  importance  only 
because,  for  at  least  six  months  of  the  year,  she  carried 
the  niece  away  from  the  Steel  City  and  filled  her  young 
mind  with  what  Sanger,  who  was  a  self-made  man, 
perceived  to  be  silly  notions. 

It  so  happened — if  we  may  term  such  fateful  occur- 
rences "happenings" — that  two  nights  after  Bob  was 
invited  to  join  the  reformers,  while  he  was  working 
an  extra  shift,  Sanger  personally  conducted  a  party 
through  his  mills,  and  that  the  niece  was  of  the  party. 
The  guest  of  honor  was  a  famous  engineer  of  the 
English  army. 

Sanger  was  dilating  upon  his  passion. 

"You  are  enthusiastic,  sir,"  ventured  the  guest. 

"And  why  not  ?  We're  the  most  important  industry 
the  world  has  ever  known  or  ever  will  know.  We're 
the  right  hand  of  modern  progress.  We  take  a  car- 
load of  rock  from  the  earth  and  convert  it  into  steel, 
the  framework  of  civilization.  We  are  defying  nature, 
conquering  her.  There  is  a  natural  law  saying  that 

40 


A  GIRL  AND  A  DECISION        41 

man  shall  go  only  so  fast.  We  make  steel  rails,  set  up- 
steel  engines,  and  you  go  sixty  miles  an  hour.  Another 
law  says  our  coasts  are  the  limit  of  travel.  Our  ances- 
tors defied  that  law  with  wood  and  canvas.  We  make 
it  ridiculous  with  steel  ships  driven  by  steel  machinery. 
There  is  the  law  of  gravitation  which  says  that  man 
shall  cling  to  the  face  of  the  earth.  With  our  steel 
girders  you  rear  ten-  and  twelve-story  buildings  and 
live  in  the  air.  You  and  I,  Major,  will  see  them  twenty 
stories  high,  and  the  next  generation  thirty  and  forty. 
You  hear  that  steam  is  the  greatest  discovery.  Non- 
sense !  What  would  steam  be  worth  without  steel  to 
control  and  direct  it?  Some  people  see  in  all  this 
around  us  only  a  dirty,  noisy  mess,  or  view  it  only  in 
its  commercial  aspect — and  dollars  are  well  enough  in 
their  way,  eh,  Eleanor? — but  I  don't.  I  say,  'Here  is 
a  tremendous  force,  the  finest  product  of  the  human 
mind,  doing  in  one  day  what  ten  thousand  men  couldn't 
do  in  a  lifetime.  Right  here  is  the  beginning  of  mod- 
ern progress.  Here  we  make  civilization  while  you 
wait !'  " 

"You  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  your  industry,  Mr. 
Sanger,"  the  Englishman  assented. 

"To  put  it  in  terms  of  your  profession,  Major," 
Sanger  pursued  his  topic  eloquently,  "I  command  in 
the  army  of  construction,  while  you  command  in  the 
army  of  destruction.  And  I  have  a  notion  that  when 
our  respective  achievements  are  summed  up  we'll  be 
given  the  palm." 

"Granted,  my  dear  sir,"  laughed  the  major.  "And 
I  must  say  you've  mustered  in  a  fine  lot  of  men  in  your 
army.  That  young  giant  over  there,  for  instance — 
I'd  like  to  have  him." 


42  THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

Sanger's  forehead  wrinkled  in  a  frown  of  irritation. 
"He's  the  best  man  in  the  works — and  the  worst!  I 
almost  wish  you  did  have  him.  Though  he's  more  use 
in  my  army  than  he'd  be  in  yours.  He's — well — hardly 
amenable  to  discipline — Ah!" 

His  exclamation  was  called  forth  by  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  the  young  man  under  discussion.  Intent  on 
his  task,  he  had  become  aware  of  Sanger's  niece,  who 
stood  at  his  elbow  watching  and  admiring  his  deft 
manipulation  of  the  heavy  tools.  He  glared  insolently 
at  her. 

"You  are  very  strong,  aren't  you?"  she  said. 

For  answer  he  dropped  his  tools,  caught  her  by  the 
waist  and  set  her  back  from  the  machinery. 

"Get  out  of  my  way !"  he  growled  fiercely. 

In  an  instant  he  was  once  more  intent  on  his  work, 
while  the  young  girl,  flushed  and  indignant,  stared 
angrily  at  him. 

"Eleanor!"  called  her  uncle,  sharply  for  him.  "Keep 
away  from  the  men  and  the  machinery.  You'll  get 
hurt." 

"Rather  insolent  that,  wasn't  it?"  suggested  the 
Englishman. 

"O,  he's  insolent  enough,"  Sanger  half  laughed,  half 
frowned.  "I've  had  a  taste  of  it  more  than  once. 
Though  he's  right  this  time ;  there's  danger  for  a  green- 
horn around  the  machines.  Young  as  he  is,  he  is  the 
acknowledged  leader  of  the  men.  A  year  ago  he  led 
the  only  successful  strike  in  these  mills.  The  rollers 
wanted  a  raised  scale  on  overtime  work — he  does  more 
of  it  than  any  other  two  men  I  have.  He  waited  until 
he  knew  I  was  behind  on  a  big  contract ;  then  he  and 
the  others  coolly  walked  out.  He  had  them  hypnotized 


A  GIRL  AND  A  DECISION        43 

into  obeying  him  absolutely — I  had  to  agree  to  their 
demands,"  Sanger  laughed  ruefully. 

"But  isn't  it — er — bad  for  discipline  to  keep  that  sort 
on?" 

"I  wish  I  had  your  means  of  enforcing  it,"  Sanger 
said  enviously.  "It  is  bad  for  discipline.  But  I  don't 
dare  fire  him.  He's  a  born  politician — quite  a  power 
in  city  politics  already.  And  if  I  let  him  go,  I'd  never 
know  when  he'd  be  organizing  another  strike  on  me. 
I  prefer  to  keep  him  under  my  eye.  Besides,  he  has  a 
couple  of  minor  patents — Eleanor!  Keep  away — 
God!" 

The  girl,  unmindful  of  her  uncle's  warning,  had  ven- 
tured again,  in  a  spirit  of  resentful  daring,  too  near  the 
rolls.  A  quick  gust  blew  her  skirts  against  the  machin- 
ery. Suddenly  she  felt  herself  caught  from  the  ground 
in  a  terrible  grip  and  thrown  prostrate  on  the  rolls. 
She  had  a  vision  of  a  white-hot  steel  serpent  darting 
toward  her.  She  gave  one  despairing  shriek.  .  .  . 
Then  another  hand  caught  her.  .  .  .  She  felt  the 
serpent's  hot  breath  as  it  passed — interminable — be- 
neath her  and  the  arched,  rigid  body  that  bridged  the 
rolls  and  held  her. 

Bob,  too,  had  seen. 

For  a  time,  while  the  clock  might  tick  off  a  long 
minute,  the  group  stood  as  though  paralyzed,  the  girl 
leaning  weakly  against  Bob's  strong  arm.  It  was 
Sanger  who  first  came  out  of  his  daze. 

"Eleanor !  Eleanor !  Thank  God !"  It  was  a  signal 
for  them  all  to  gather  around  the  pale,  trembling  girl, 
forcing  Bob  away  from  her  and  staring  at  her  stupidly, 
nervously,  gabbling  unintelligently. 


44  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Suddenly  Bob  strode  into  the  group,  a  towering 
figure  of  wrath,  elbowing  his  way  roughly.  Before  his 
sudden  intrusion  the  group  involuntarily  fell  back, 
leaving  him  face  to  face  with  the  girl  whom  he  had 
saved.  A  hot  rage  possessed  him.  He  saw  red,  as  on 
that  night  when  he  had  fought  Haggin. 

The  girl,  in  the  reaction  from  her  fright,  did  not  see 
this.  "You  saved  my  life,"  she  said  tremblingly.  "It 
was  very  good  of  you." 

"You  little  fool!"  Bob  burst  out  hoarsely  in  his 
anger.  "How  dare  you  risk  my  life?" 

Later,  in  a  cooler  moment,  Bob  remembered  the  girl 
and  could  but  admire  her,  by  his  roughness  restored 
instantly  to  her  strength  and  courage.  Her  head  went 
back  spiritedly.  "How  dare  you  reprove  me?"  she  said. 

"Dare?"  Bob  held  out  one  great,  hairy  arm,  and 
then  glanced  over  the  slender  figure  before  him.  He 
could  have  snuffed  out  her  life  with  a  single  sweep  of 
his  arm.  He  laughed  unpleasantly. 

The  scorn  in  her  eyes  shifted  to  contempt.  "That  is 
a  coward's  thought.  You  think  because  I'm  a  girl  and 
you're  so  strong,  you  can  say  what  you  please.  You 
can  not.  I'm  not  afraid  of  you." 

"Coward!"  A  deep  flush  crept  under  the  smut  on 
liis  face.  "I  saved  your  life  when  they — •"  his  arm 
indicated  the  astounded  group — "when  they  were 
afraid  to  move." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  she  said.  "You  are  just  a  brute, 
not  a  coward.  You  did  save  my  life.  But  that  gives 
you  no  right  to  reprove  me." 

"But  you  risked  my  life  by  your  foolishness.  I 
guess  that  gives  me  the  right." 


A  GIRL  AND  A  DECISION        45 

"You  didn't  have  to  save  me.  You  have  no  right," 
she  repeated  resentfully. 

"I  was  a  fool  to  do  it.  My  life  is  worth  something1, 
but  you — •"  The  unfinished  sentence  gave  contempt 
for  contempt.  "But  why  have  I  no  right?" 

"Because  you  are  you" 

"Because  I  am  I  ?" 

Because  he  was  himself !  He,  Bob  McAdoo,  before 
whom  no  man,  howsoever  strong,  dared  to  stand  in 
combat;  whom  politicians  of  high  degree  approached 
on  terms  of  equality — nay,  as  do  those  who  seek 
favors ;  he,  so  great  in  his  own  eyes  and  in  the  eyes  of 
his  own  little  world,  must  not  rebuke  a  mere  girl  whose 
life  he  had  saved — because  he  was  himself !  Here  was 
a  new  idea  indeed !  You  see,  all  his  life  had  been  spent 
in  a  "tough"  ward,  where  true  democracy  is  most 
nearly  approximated.  He  had  read  in  his  books,  it  is 
true,  of  "aristocracy,"  but  he  supposed  that  this  was 
based  on  the  only  principle  he  recognized,  that  of  com- 
parative strength.  Apparently  he  had  thought  wrongly, 
yet  he  could  not  understand  it.  This  slim  girl,  with  her 
fearless  scorn  of  his  strength  and  that  for  which  he 
felt  instinctively  she  stood,  were  a  problem  which  he 
must  solve,  a  hostile  force  which  he  must  master.  It 
suddenly  became  a  personal  problem;  and  it  troubled 
him  as  nothing  had  ever  troubled  him  before. 

Because  he  was  himself! 

Bob  stared  at  his  hands,  the  thick,  muscular  fingers, 
the  calloused,  blackened  palms,  the  hands  of  whose 
strength  he  had  been  so  proud.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  his  strength  seemed  to  him  futile,  made  so  by  a 
slight,  pretty  girl  who  looked  upon  him  as  a  lower 


order  of  being.  Then  in  a  quick  revulsion  of  feeling1, 
the  old  pride  of  strength  returned  to  him  in  all  its 
arrogance. 

"No,"  it  was  his  soul  protesting  within  him,  "it's  all 
a  lie.  My  strength  is  not  futile.  I  can  conquer  any- 
thing. I  must  keep  faith  in  myself." 

He  looked  again  at  the  girl,  who  met  his  glance  fear- 
lessly, proudly.  The  bystanders  in  the  scene  did  not 
count  with  him,  he  had  not  given  them  a  thought.  The 
girl  only  had  not  quailed  before  him.  As  he  looked, 
a  deep  personal  hatred  of  her  grew  up  in  his  heart, 
not  because  of  that  for  which  she  stood  but  because 
something  had  given  her  a  strength  of  spirit  which  his 
jealous  own  could  not  break.  He  reached  his  clenched 
fist  toward  her. 

"I  wonder  I  don't  kill  you,"  he  growled  savagely. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  you,"  she  said  contemptuously. 
Then,  "Ah !"  she  cried,  "you  are  hurt."  It  was  true. 
The  flesh  under  his  arm,  revealed  by  his  gesture,  was 
scorched  from  the  hot  steel  that  had  passed  so  closely 
to  it.  In  his  anger  he  had  not  thought  of  it. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  he  answered  roughly.  "Get 
out  of  my  way." 

For  the  second  time  that  night  he  lifted  her  and  set 
her  to  one  side.  Then  he  strode  abruptly  away  and 
out  of  the  mills — for  ever. 

"O,  I  forgot  to  thank  him  for  saving  my  life," 
Eleanor  said  penitently,  watching  his  retreating  figure. 
"I  didn't  mean  to  be  so  horrid  to  him.  Uncle,  why 
couldn't  he  have  been  a  gentleman?  He's  so  big  and 
strong — and  isn't  he  fine  when  his  eyes  blaze !  I'm  so 
sorry  he  was  hurt.  .  .  .  And  I've  ruined  this 
dress  completely." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  POLITICIAN 

DURING  the  next  few  evenings  habitues  of  Hag- 
gin's  saloon  remarked  an  unwonted  air  of  excite- 
ment among  the  patrons,  and  mysterious,  hasty  com- 
ings and  goings,  these  journeys  being  performed  by 
Squire  Mehaffey  and  others  known  as  lieutenants  of 
McAdoo  and  Haggin.  Also  several  men  prominent  in 
the  politics  of  the  neighboring  wards  were  seen  to  enter 
the  back  room  and  remain  there  a  long  time,  closeted 
with  Bob  and  the  saloon-keeper.  The  habitues  decided 
that  "Bob  McAdoo  was  up  to  somethin'."  A  stranger, 
who  had  of  late  frequented  Haggin's  saloon,  also 
remarked  these  events.  His  opinion  was  given  pri- 
vately to  MacPherson. 

"Whatever  he  asks,  you  come  down,"  he  advised. 
"He's  loaded  for  bear." 

MacPherson  frowned.  "No  chance  of  going  over 
his  head?" 

"None  whatever.  Haggin  daren't  draw  a  long 
breath  without  asking  his  permission.  Funny  thing 
about  those  fellows  down  there.  They  don't  like  him 
for  a  cent,  but  they  take  his  orders  for  gospel.  Regular 
little  czar,  that  McAdoo." 

When  his  lines  were  ready,  Bob  went  to  MacPher- 
son. Robbins  was  there,  as  usual. 

47 


43  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Good!"  exclaimed  the  latter.  "I  knew  you  would 
be  with  us." 

Bob  met  his  enthusiasm  indifferently.  "O,  I'm  not 
with  you  until  you  meet  my  terms,  you  know." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  terms  I  offered?  Aren't 
they  liberal  enough?"  demanded  MacPherson. 

"No.  I'll  turn  over  the  Fourth,  Seventh,  Thirteenth 
and  Fourteenth  by  three  thousand.  You  to  give 
me  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  ten  thousand  for  ex- 
penses. The  Sixth  Legislative's  share  of  the  pay-roll 
to  come  to  me  for  appointment  and  all  orders.  Of 
course,  this  means  the  Sixth's  regular  share."  It  had 
been  customary,  under  Steele  and  Harmon,  to  give  the 
Sixth  Legislative  District  the  lion's  share  of  the  plums. 

"Say,"  MacPherson  sneered,  "you  take  over  the 
leadership  of  the  party  and  buy  my  support.  It  would 
be  cheaper  for  me." 

"Take  it  or  leave  it,"  Bob  said  coolly.  "I  can  do 
better  with  Harmon." 

"Well,"  MacPherson  assented  with  visible  reluc- 
tance. "But  I  don't  propose  to  buy  you  at  this  price 
every  trip." 

"Of  course.  This  deal  only  covers  this  fight.  We 
mayn't  be  together  next  time." 

"Why  not?"  the  boss  demanded  sharply. 

"I  don't  like  you,"  Bob  replied,  "and  you  don't  like 
me.  We  mightn't  get  along,  you  know.  Then  I'll  go 
somewhere  else.  You  can  make  out  a  check  for  the 
twenty  thousand  right  now." 

"Before  you  deliver  the  goods  ?    Not  much !" 

"O,  yes,  you  will,"  Bob  said  easily.  "I'll  do  what  I 
promise,  and  you  know  it.  I  don't  know  that  you  will, 


THE  POLITICIAN  49 

and  after  the  election  I  couldn't  make  you  do  it.  Make 
it  to  my  order." 

"That  is,  I'm  to  trust  you,  and  you  won't  trust  me  ?" 

"You  can,  I  can't." 

"Well,  for  concentrated  gall  you  take  the  blue  rib- 
bon!" MacPherson  ejaculated.  But  he  made  out  the 
check  as  Bob  had  suggested. 

It  was  a  lucky  bargain  for  MacPherson.  Bob  kept 
his  promise;  his  four  wards  returned  a  majority  of 
nearly  four  thousand  for  the  Citizens'  Party  ticket. 
That  party  also  carried  the  city  by  three  thousand. 

So  came  the  "reformation,"  and  Robert  McAdoo 
began  his  political  career  in  earnest. 

The  night  after  the  election,  Bob  entered  the  Flinns' 
sitting-room,  where  sat  his  friends  in  a  cozy  domes- 
ticity whose  charm  was  lost  to  Bob,  Patrick  nodding 
over  his  pipe,  Norah  deftly  plying  her  knitting-needles, 
Kathleen's  pretty  head  bent  over  a  book. 

"Kathleen,"  he  said  abruptly,  "what  does  a  good 
private  teacher  cost?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.    "To  teach  what?" 

"O,  Latin,  Greek,  German,  history — everything  you 
learn  in  high  school  and  college.  Grammar,  for  in- 
stance. I  ain't  much — "  He  caught  himself  and 
laughed  shortly.  "For  one  thing,  I  want  to  get  out  of 
this  pesky  habit  of  sayin'  'ain't.'  What  will  it  cost  me?" 

"Two  or  three  dollars  an  hour,  I  think." 

"Can  you  do  it?" 

"I  can  at  the  beginning,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"All  right.  We  begin  to-morrow  night.  I'll  pay 
you  three  dollars  an  hour." 


50  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

The  flush  became  a  cleep  crimson.  "No,  not  that 
way,  Bob.  I  couldn't  take  your  money." 

"Why  not?" 

"For  one  reason,"  she  answered  quietly,  "you've 
already  given  too  much  money  to  this  family." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  intently. 

"All  right.  We  do  it  your  way  then.  You — you're 
all  right,  Kathleen,"  he  added  gruffly,  and  went  up  to 
his  room.  Later  Kathleen  left  Patrick  and  Norah 
alone. 

Patrick,  who  had  not  been  dozing,  opened  his  eyes 
and  winked  significantly  at  Norah. 

"Norah,  d'ye  smell  nawthin'  ?" 

"Pathrick,  arre  ye  clane  crazy  over  the  gurrul  ?  Be- 
sides, Bob's  no  marryin'  man.'' 

"Faith!"  said  Patrick  proudly.  "An'  could  he  do 
betther  than  marry  her  mother's  gurrul.  I'm  goin'  up 
to  talk  to  th'  bye." 

He  knocked  on  Bob's  door,  which  was  significant, 
since  in  that  simple  household  it  was  not  the  custom 
to  herald  your  approach  by  a  knock. 

"Come  in.  O,  it's  you,  Pat?  Take  a  chair,"  Bob 
answered. 

"Arre  ye  busy,  Bob?" 

"O,  no.    Glad  to  see  you.    Only  thinkin'  a  little." 

*'I  wouldn't  think  too  much,  av  I  was  you.  It's  bad 
f'r  th'  constytushun,"  Patrick  laughed.  "Can't  ye 
say  somethin',  Bob?" 

"Sure.     But  don't  tell  Norah." 

He  opened  a  closet  and  took  therefrom  a  bottle  and 
a  corkscrew. 

"Here's  some  prime  stuff,  thirty-three  years   old, 


THE  POLITICIAN  51 

Mike  tells  me,"  he  explained  as  he  opened  the  bottle. 
"You  don't  mind  the  tooth-mug,  do  you  ?" 

"Shure,  no,"  said  Patrick,  smacking  his  lips  in  antic- 
ipation. "Tasthes  just  as  good  as  fr'm  a  goold  mug — 
though,  bedad,  it's  only  guessin'  at  that  last  I  am." 

"Say  when."  And  Bob  poured  out  a  liberal  portion. 

"Whin!"  Patrick  exclaimed.  "D'ye  think  ye' re 
pourin'  f'r  a  sthone-head  like  yersilf  ?  But  what  arre 
ye  goin'  to  do  f'r  yer  drink  ?" 

"O,  I've  quit."" 

Patrick  almost  dropped  the  precious  mug  in  his  as- 
tonishment. "Eh?  Ye'vequit!  An' why?" 

"O,  I  just  quit.    That's  all." 

"But  it  nivir  hurrts  ye,"  Patrick  insisted. 

"And  I  don't  intend  it  to,"  Bob  returned  quietly. 

Patrick  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "Ye're  a  quare 
laad,  Bob  McAdoo.  There's  sometnm'  lift  out  av  ye, 
I  always  did  say.  Well,  it's  a  cryin'  shame  t'  let  good 
whisky  go  to  wasthe.  Here's  hearthy!  Ah!"  And 
Patrick  set  down  the  mug  with  a  sigh  of  deep  soul- 
satisfaction. 

For  some  moments  the  two  sat  silent  before  the 
fire,  Patrick  shuffling  about  in  embarrassment.  For 
he  knew  not  how  to  unburden  himself  of  his  errand. 
At  last  he  bolted  out : 

"Bob,  why  don't  ye  git  married?" 

"Humph!"  Bob  ejaculated  contemptuously.  "Why 
should  I  get  married?" 

"Think  shame  to  yersilf,"  Patrick  cried  indignantly, 
"to  be  sphakin'  so  irrivirint  av  th'  howly  esthate  av 
mathrymony.  Where'd  ye  be  now,  av  yer  payrints 
hadn't  abin  married?" 


52  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"I  don't  even  know  that  they  were  married,"  Bob 
answered.  "Besides,  marriage's  no  good  to  me." 

"Ye're  a  quare  laad,  Bob  McAdoo.  Ye  have  no 
bowils  av  tinderniss  at  all.  I  don't  belave  there's  a 
person  in  th'  worruld,  av  he'd  die,  ye'd  give  th'  lasthe 
heartache  to.  It's,  'What  c'n  they  do  f  r  me?'  wid  ye. 
Ye're  so  wid  Norah  an'  mesilf.  Ye're  so  wid  th'  byes. 
It's  so  wid  Tom  Haggin.  Though  it's  a  cryin'  shame, 
I  say,  to  see  a  big,  sthrong  man  like  him  takin'  ordhers 
f  r'm  a  sthone-headed,  sthone-hearted  bye  like  )^e.  An' 
not  th'  lasthe  bit  av  a  likin'  have  ye  f'r  annywan  av  us. 
An'  they  don't  like  ye,  Bob,  they  don't  like  ye.  Ye  have 
no  frinds.  Ye're  th'  lonest,  frindlissist  man  I  know — 
sarve  ye  right!"  he  concluded  exasperatedly. 

"Friends!"  Bob  sneered.  "I  don't  need  'em.  You 
say  yourself  they  do  what  I  want.  That's  enough  for 
me.  What  do  I  want  with  friendship?" 

Patrick  threw  out  his  hands  helplessly.  "Av  ye 
could  ask  that  quistion,  ye  could  nivir  undherstand  th' 
answer.  But,"  he  returned  doggedly  to  his  text,  "ye 
ought  to  git  married  just  th'  same.  Ye  nade  some  wan 
to  care  f'r  ye  an'  like  ye." 

Bob  laughed.  "You  just  said  no  one  likes  me.  Any- 
how, who'd  I  marry?" 

"Well,"  Patrick  said  defiantly,  "there's  Kathleen." 

"O,  Kathleen  ain't  the  woman  for  me,"  Bob  said 
carelessly. 

"An'  why  not?"  Patrick  demanded  in  hurt  indigna- 
tion. "An't  Kathleen  good  enough  f'r  annywan  ?  An't 
she  better  idjicated  than  yersilf,  wid  her  high-schoolin' 
an'  tachin'?  An't  she  the  purthiest  gurrul  in  th' 
warrud  ?  An't  she  swate  as  th'  finest  lady  in  th'  land  ?" 

"O,  you  don't  understand,  Pat,"  was  the  impatient 
answer. 


THE  POLITICIAN  53 

Then  Bob  did  a  strange  thing.  With  a  quick  move- 
ment he  tore  his  shirt  and  undershirt  from  his  body 
and  stood  before  Patrick  stripped  to  the  waist. 

"See!" 

He  drew  his  arms  up  and  the  huge  biceps  swelled 
until  you  would  have  expected  the  skin  to  burst.  Then 
he  drew  himself  tensely  together.  The  big  pectorals 
stood  out  in  thick  layers  and  his  waist  muscles  were  a 
series  of  bulging,  sharply-defined  ridges.  He  turned 
around.  Patrick  saw]  a  back  covered  with  knots  and 
lines  of  magnificent  muscles.  Bob  seized  him  by  the 
wrists. 

"Break  loose,"  he  commanded. 

Patrick  writhed  and  pulled  to  break  the  iron  grasp, 
in  vain. 

"Harder.  You  haven't  moved  my  arms.  Harder, 
harder !"  Bob  jeered. 

Patrick  increased  his  efforts  until  the  sweat  rolled 
down  his  face.  He  was  as  helpless  in  that  grip  as  a 
babe,  and  Patrick,  despite  his  increasing  fat,  was  no 
weakling. 

"Bah!"  Bob  threw  him  contemptuously  into  the 
chair. 

"That's  why,"  he  cried  in  passionate  pride,  "that's 
why  I  don't  want  friends.  That's  why  Kathleen  ain't 
for  me.  But  muscle  is  nothing.  I'm  just  as  strong 
here."  He  struck  his  forehead  with  his  palm.  "That's 
why  you  all  do  what  I  want,  because  you  know  how 
strong  I  am  and  are  afraid  of  me.  What  use  has  a  man 
as  strong  as  me  for  friends  ?  What  I  want  to  do,  I  can 
do  for  myself  without  any  one's  friendship.  And  how 
can  I  like  people  I  can  break  and  crush  as  easy  as  I 
bend  this  poker." 

He  took  up  the  thick  iron  rod  and  without  any  ap- 


54  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

parent  effort  drew  its  ends  together,  then  straightened 
it. 

"I  never  felt  what  you  call  friendly  to  any  one,"  he 
went  on,  dropping  into  his  usual  quiet  tone.  "I  never 
wanted  a  friend.  All  that  was  left  out  of  me,  I  think. 
And  I'm  glad  of  it.  I  can't  have  anybody,  through 
friendship,  gettin'  a  hold  on  me.  It's  the  same  reason 
that  made  me  quit  drinkin'.  It  don't  hurt  me  now,  but 
it  might  get  hold  of  me  some  day.  It's  the  strongest 
win  out  in  this  world,  Pat,  and  I  must  be  strongest!" 

Patrick  sat,  awed  and  half  frightened  by  this,  the 
longest  speech  he  had  ever  heard  from  Bob's  lips,  and 
by  the  spirit  that  inspired  the  outburst. 

"Ye're  right,"  he  said  slowly.  "Ye're  cruel  sthrong. 
An'  mebby  ye  can  do  without  friends.  I  don't  know. 
But  some  day,  I'm  thinkin',  ye'll  love  somebody — hard! 
Thin  God  pity  ye !" 

Bob  laughed  harshly.   "I'll  risk  it." 

"God  pity  ye,  whin  ye  find  th'  risk  ye're  takin'," 
Patrick  repeated.  He  turned  from  Bob  and  slowly  left 
the  room,  wagging  his  head  dubiously. 

They  did  not  know  that  in  another  room  lay  a  girl 
who  had  chanced  to  hear  words  not  meant  for  her  ears. 
Minute  after  minute,  hour  after  hour,  dragged  by,  and 
Kathleen  never  stirred.  She  lay,  staring  with  dry, 
burning  eyes  at  the  white  patch  of  moonlight  on  the 
floor  until  the  night  outgrew  it  and  left  the  room  in 
darkness.  Poor  Kathleen!  her  love  battered  and  torn 
under  the  heedless  wheels  of  a  strong  man's  ambition, 
was  fighting  the  bitter  battle  of  her  life's  one  romance. 

But  next  evening  began  the  lessons.  Never  was  a 
more  earnest  tutor,  and  never  a  more  faithful  pupil. 
And  no  one  saw  the  change  in  Kathleen,  her  girlhood 
lost,  her  womanhood  won  in  a  night. 


BOOK  TWO 
IN  THE  MOULD 


CHAPTER  I 

FIVE   YEARS   LATER 

T^vIRECTOR  of  Public  Safety  McAdoo  arranged 
A-J  the  documents  he  had  been  reading  into  neat, 
methodical  piles,  and  rose  from  his  desk,  stretching  his 
muscles  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  had  become  a  faithful 
desk-worker,  but  there  were  times  when  he  longed  for 
the  fierce  muscular  effort  of  the  old  mill  life.  He  lighted 
a  long,  black  cigar  and  went  to  a  window  which  opened 
on  the  street.  It  was  the  Saturday  before  Christmas, 
and  the  city  was  alive  with  the  peculiarly  pleasurable 
excitement  always  generated  by  the  Christmastide. 

Five  years  had  wrought  many  changes  in  the  life  of 
Bob  McAdoo.  He  was  twenty  pounds  lighter  than 
when  he  had  worked  in  the  mills,  although  his  sinews 
were  still  kept  in  condition  by  systematic,  vigorous  ex- 
ercise. His  face  was  thinner  and  finer,  and  marked  by 
lines  of  thought  and  study.  He  had  grown  mentally  in 
the  new  life  and  under  Kathleen's  tutelage.  His  clothes 
were  now  made  by  the  city's  highest-priced  tailor,  but, 
worn  carelessly,  gave  little  hint  of  that  subtle  thing  we 
call  style. 

His  bold  negotiations  with  MacPherson  had  given 
him  a  hold  on  the  Sixth  Legislative  District  which 
careful  organization  and  judicious  bestowal  of  the  pat- 
ronage made  his  by  virtue  of  that  deal  had  converted 
into  a  veritable  despotism.  All  candidates  for  coun- 

57 


$8  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

cilmanic  and  legislative  honors  from  that  district  had 
come  to  look  to  him  for  nomination  and  election.  Nat- 
urally the  man  who  "carried  the  Sixth  in  his  vest- 
pocket"  was  a  considerable  quantity  in  municipal 
affairs.  When  the  second  mayor  under  the  MacPherson 
regime  was  elected  (Harmon  and  the  old  combine  were 
now  dead  and  forgotten  politically  and  the  fathers  of 
the  Citizens'  Party  were  in  undisputed  control  of  the 
Republican  organization),  Bob  was  one  of  the  four 
men  who  finally  selected  the  fortunate  candidate.  Un- 
der this  administration  he  accepted  the  office  he  now 
held.  His  signature  at  the  bottom  of  a  check  was  now 
familiar  to  the  banks  of  the  city  and  passed  without 
question,  since  he  was  rapidly  becoming  a  rich  man. 
When  MacPherson  went  into  power  Bob  sold  his 
patent  rights  to  Sanger  for  a  cash  consideration  and, 
under  Squire  Mehaffey's  name,  formed  a  contracting 
firm.  This  firm  secured  many  profitable  jobs  from  the 
city  government.  For  instance,  when  the  new  Public 
Safety  Building  was  erected,  there  were  several  large 
firms  who  made  very  favorable  bids.  Mehaffey  and 
Company's  bid  was  higher,  but  they  were  nevertheless 
declared  the  lowest  and  best  "responsible"  bidder  and 
were  awarded  the  contract.  This  was  a  very  sweet  and 
juicy  plum  indeed.  Later  it  was  decided  to  construct  a 
boulevard  through  the  fashionable  quarter  of  the  city. 
Bob  was  one  of  the  few  who  were  aware  of  this  project 
before  it  was  made  public,  and  secured  options  on 
much  good  property  along  the  proposed  route.  When 
the  news  of  the  new  boulevard  reached  the  e?:rs  of  the 
speculators,  he  sold  his  options  for  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars. A  street  railway  franchise  was  engineered 
through  councils,  largely  by  means  of  the  votes  of 


FIVE  YEARS  LATER  59 

Bob's  group  of  councilman.  Bob's  share  of  the  spoils 
was  a  large  block  of  stock,  which  he  afterward  sold  for 
almost  twice  its  par  value.  A  storm  of  popular  protest 
arose  over  this  transaction  and  swept  most  of  those 
who  had  voted  for  the  measure  out  of  office.  But  Bob's 
friends,  who  had  been  the  chief  offenders,  were  re- 
turned to  a  man;  this  was  a  profitable  but  dangerous 
experiment  on  Bob's  part  and  he  never  repeated  it. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  this  franchise  affair  that  he  was 
first  cartooned  under  the  sobriquet  "Knockout  Bob," 
as  a  big,  burly  prize-fighter,  with  the  ugly,  brutal  fea- 
tures, and  particularly  the  heavy,  undershot  jowl,  sup- 
posed to  be  characteristic  of  men  of  that  profession. 
Kathleen,  with  a  troubled  smile,  showed  it  to  Bob. 

He  gave  vent  to  one  of  his  very  rare  laughs.  "Why, 
this  is  fame,  Kathleen.  Get  a  scrap-book  and  save  all 
the  cartoons  of  me,  will  you  ?" 

All  this  success  was  not  accomplished  easily,  but 
by  dint  of  hard  unremitting,  work  and  unceasing 
watchfulness  upon  MacPherson.  For,  although  they 
had  so  far  stood  together,  Bob  knew  that  it  was  only 
an  armed  truce,  that  the  boss  hated  him.  It  was  largely 
for  this  reason  that  he  had  made  haste  to  accumulate 
a  large  bank  account.  Once  Harmon  was  well  out  of 
the  way,  Bob  knew  the  only  consideration  which  would 
prevent  MacPherson  from  making  war  upon  him  was 
that  of  expense.  Bob's  money  was  now  an  invincible 
defense. 

But  to  what  end,  all  this?  Lately  he  had  begun  to 
ponder  this  question. 

Bob  had  cast  all  but  self  out  of  his  scheme  of  life. 
This  was  violating  a  law  of  nature  and  he  was  be- 
ginning to  reap  the  punishment  in  a  strong  discon- 


6o  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

tent.  He  was  not  given  to  sentiment,  but  as  he  looked 
out  on  the  passers-by,  all  wearing  the  Christmas  air,  he 
realized  that  they  had  something  he,  with  all  he  had 
won  and  all  he  would  win,  had  not.  He  had  no 
illusions.  It  had  been  bearing  in  upon  him  that  if  he 
adhered  to  his  philosophy  of  concentrated  egoism,  all 
he  could  hereafter  gain  would  be  but  in  greater  degree 
what  he  already  had. 

"But,  after  all,"  he  mused,  half  aloud,  "for  a  man  of 
my  sort,  power  is  the  only  thing  worth  living  for. 
The  trouble  with  me  is  that  God — if  there  is  a  God — 
made  me  too  big  to  be  contented  with  ordinary  people 
and  their  ordinary  emotions. — Come  in.  O,  hello, 
Tom." 

"Fine  Chris'mus  weather  we're  having  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo,"  said  Haggin,  who  was  the  intruder.  Like  the 
other  "boys,"  he  always  called  Bob  "Mister"  nowadays. 

"Fine  enough,  I  guess.  Can  I  do  something  for 
you?" 

"O,  no,"  Haggin  answered,  with  ponderous  bashful- 
ness.  "I  only  dropped  in  to  say  'Merry  Chris'mus'  to 
ye." 

"Very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure,  Tom."  Bob's  tone  was 
anything  but  enthusiastic;  yet  he  was  surprised  by  a 
faint  glow  of  pleasure  at  the  ex-pugilist's  greeting. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence,  at  length  broken  by 
Haggin.  "Ye  hain't  been  down  to  the  saloon  lately/' 

"Why,  no,  Tom.  I've  been  too  busy.  Anything 
new?" 

Haggin  jumped  from  his  seat,  as  though  he  had  been 
shot. 

"Hanged  if  I  hain't  'most  forgot.  Been  intendin*  to 
tell  you  all  week,  but  buyin'  Chris'mus  gifts  fer  the 


FIVE  YEARS  LATER  61 

missus  an'  the  kids  I  forgot.  Smith's  been  raisin'  a  big 
howl  about  not  gettin'  back  to  the  legislatur'.  Says  he 
oughter  git  another  term.  Goin'  round  among  the  boys 
an'  kickin'  like  a  mule." 

"Can't  help  that.    I  promised  Stoughton,  and  he 
goes." 

"Of  course.  You  say  so,  and  he  goes.  Smith's  kick- ' 
in'  ain't  doin'  him  no  good.  The  boys  just  laughs  at 
him  an'  tells  him  to  take  orders  an'  shut  up  an'  that  he 
hain't  no  right  to  hog  his  job  anyways.  'Tain't  him 
that's  raisin'  the  trouble,  but  a  young  feller  named 
Remington.  An'  he  ain't  no  slouch,  you  hear  me.  He's 
the  feller  I  told  you  about  came  down  to  the  Liberty 
Hall  meetin'  last  campaign.  The  boys  was  waitin'  an* 
growin'  impatient,  until  'long  about  nine  o'clock  in 
comes  a  tall  young  feller,  regular  kid.  Good  looker, 
with  long,  curly  hair  an'  a  dashin'  kind  of  way.  An' 
swell — ?  He  made  me  feel  like  a  glass  fact'ry,  an'  I 
had  on  me  hunderd-dollar  suit,  too.  He  steps  up  to  me 
an'  says,  'Mr.  Chairman,  my  name's  Remington  an* 
I'm  here  to  make  a  speech.'  At  that  the  boys  sets  up  a 
yell,  hootin'  an'  guyin'  him  like  four  of  a  kind.  Swell 
chap  doesn't  say  a  word,  but  offs  with  his  overcoat  an' 
sits  on  the  table  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  laughin' 
as  if  he  had  a  good  joke  on  somebody  else.  Fin'ly  the 
boys  lets  up  fer  lack  of  wind.  Then  he  starts  in  an'  tells 
a  story  fit  to  make  you  bust.  The  boys  laughs  hard  un- 
til they  begun  to  see  the  point  was  on  them.  Then  he 
gives  'em  the  worst  tongue-lashin'  you  ever  heard.  I 
thought  there  would  be  trouble  an'  was  gittin'  ready  to 
keep  the  peace,  when  one  of  the  boys  sings  out,  'You're 
all  right,  kid.'  An'  damn  me  if  they  didn't  cheer  him 
louder  than  they'd  guyed  him.  Then  he  talked  fer  near 


62  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

an  hour.  An'  talk !  Say,  that  kid  had  'em  all  tied  in  a 
knot.  When  he  was  through,  they  all  crowded  up  to 
him  an'  wanted  to  buy  him  drinks.  O,  he's  a  corker, 
an'  no  mistake !" 

"Well,  what  of  him?"  Bob  interrupted  Haggin's 
flow,  somewhat  impatiently. 

"He's  takin'  the  Smith  end  of  the  row.  Lives  in  the 
Seventh — Stoughton's  own  ward,  you  know — gets 
himself  elected  precinct  chairman — how,  I  don't  know. 
Goes  to  ward  committee  meetin',  officer-electin'  night. 
Gets  himself  elected  ward  chairman — how,  I  don't 
know.  An'  now  he's  goin'  round  sayin'  'tain't  fair  to 
turn  Smith  down  this  trip.  He's  gettin'  the  boys  stirred 
up  some,  too." 

"Why  didn't  you  send  him  to  me?" 

"I  did  try  to.  He  said,  'You  tell  Bob  McAdoo  to  go 
plumb  to  thunder.  If  he  wants  to  see  me,  let  him  come 
to  me.' " 

"You  call  the  district  committee  together  Monday. 
I'll  fix  him,"  Bob  promised  grimly. 

"Can't  you  make  it  Tuesday  ?  Monday's  Chris'mus." 

"What  of  that?" 

"Well,"  Haggin  explained  apologetically,  "the  boys 
like  to  be  off  Chris'mus,  you  know,  with  the  kids." 

"Can't  help  it.  I've  got  to  go  out  of  town  Tuesday. 
Make  it  Monday  night." 

"All  right,"  Haggin  assented  regretfully.  "I  suppose 
you'll  have  to  turn  the  kid  down.  I  hate  to  do  it, 
though.  He's  such  a  corker.  Well,  I  must  be  goin'." 

"Wait  a  minute,  Tom."  Bob  sat  down  and  filled  out 
a  check.  "Here's  something  for  Christmas." 

"What!  You  givin'  Chris'mus  gifts?"  Haggin  took 
the  check  in  amazement. 


FIVE  YEARS  LATER  63 

Bob's  face  burned  red  at  something  implied  in  Hag- 
gin's  words.  "Why  not?"  he  retorted  gruffly.  "You 
need  another  diamond,  Tom.  Here's  another  for  the 
boys  in  the  Fourth.  They  haven't  found  much  pickings 
lately." 

"How  d'you  know  I  won't  keep  it,  too?" 

"Nonsense,  Tom !  I  know  you." 

Haggin  swallowed  hard.  "Mr.  McAdoo,"  he  said 
awkwardly,  "you're  a  man.  I'd  ruther  hear  them  words 
than  git  the  check.  I  hain't  words  to  thank  you.  Merry 
Chris'mus !" 

"The  old  man  givin'  Chris'mus  gifts,  an'  tellin'  me 
he  trusts  me!"  he  murmured  to  himself  in  the  corridor. 
"Hanged  if  he  ain't  changin' !  Hanged  if  I  don't  be- 
lieve he's  got  bowils,  after  all !" 

Bob  stood  staring  at  his  check-book.  Finally  he  sat 
down  and  lighted  a  fresh  cigar. 

"Now  I  wonder  why  I  did  that  ?  I  have  always  said 
giving  Christmas  presents  was  a  foolish  institution.  I 
hope  I'm  not  becoming  like  other  people." 

He  propped  his  feet  up  on  the  desk  and  smoked 
ruminatively.  At  times  he  frowned,  as  though  at  some 
distasteful  thought.  At  last  his  cigar  burned  out  The 
clock  on  his  desk  pointed  to  the  hour  of  mid-afternoon. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"All  of  which  is  damned  nonsense !"  he  exclaimed  in 
a  tone  of  disgust,  although  apropos  of  what  he  did  not 
indicate.  "Nevertheless,  since  I  have  been  foolish  for 
once,  I  might  as  well  carry  it  to  the  end  by  getting 
something  for  the  Flinns.  They've  earned  it,  that's 
sure." 

He  closed  his  desk  with  a  slam  and,  putting  on  his 
overcoat,  went  out  into  the  Christmas  atmosphere. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE 

BOB  walked  hastily  through  the  crowded  streets, 
half  ashamed  of  his  errand  and  yet — he  confessed 
to  himself — recklessly  enjoying  this  abandonment  of 
his  principles  (he  called  them  "principles")  as  he  had 
enjoyed  nothing  since  the  days  of  his  school-boy  insur- 
rections. He  came  to  a  jewelry  store  and,  entering,  took 
his  place  in  the  long  line  of  holiday  customers  who  were 
lined  along  the  show-case.  A  young  man  beside  him 
nodded.  "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  McAdoo?" 

Bob  returned  the  nod  carelessly.  He  was  growing 
used  to  being  addressed  by  strangers. 

A  dapper  clerk  bustled  up  to  him.  "What  can  I  show 
you  ?"  he  asked  politely. 

Bob  frowned  in  perplexity.  "Well,"  he  said  slowly, 
"I  hardly  know/* 

The  young  man  beside  him  laughed  heartily.  "Is 
there  then  one  thing  the  great  McAdoo  doesn't  know  ?" 

Bob  turned  on  him  sharply,  fixing  on  him  the  cold, 
steely  glare  that  even  MacPherson  feared  to  meet.  The 
young  man  returned  it  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"Yes,  one  thing — how  to  take  impertinence." 

The  young  man  laughed  again.  "I've  heard  of  your 
acrid  humor.  Here,  you'd  better  let  me  attend  to  this 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE          65 

job  for  you.  You're  out  of  your  element  and  I'm  at 
home  at  it." 

Bob  grinned,  in  spite  of  himself,  at  the  young  man's 
gay  assurance.  "All  right.  Go  ahead." 

"Whom  is  it  to  be  for — a  lady  ?"  the  young  man  in- 
quired briskly. 

"Two,  and  one  man." 

"Any  limit?" 

"No." 

"Let's  take  up  one  of  the  ladies  first.  What's  she  like, 
young  or  old,  complexion  dark  or  light,  slender  or 
plump?  And  what  sort  of  jewelry  does  she  affect?" 

"She's  not  young.  Hair  red.  Complexion — well, 
red,  too.  She's  not  plump — she's  fat." 

"Ah!  I  see— Mrs.  Flinn." 

"What  do  you  know  of  Mrs.  Flinn  ?" 

"I  know  a  good  deal  of  you''  the  young  man  smiled 
quizzically  again.  "We  want  something  gorgeous.  A 
ring,  I  should  say — something  in  diamonds  and  rubies. 
Let's  see  what  you  have." 

The  dapper  clerk  brought  a  tray  on  which  precious 
stones  glittered  in  all  colors  of  the  rainbow.  The  young 
man  examined  and  rejected  many,  critically  and  in  cool 
disregard  of  the  clerk's  suggestions,  while  Bob,  half 
amused,  half  angry  with  himself,  looked  on,  silent. 
At  last  a  ring,  set  with  a  large  ruby  and  two  fine  dia- 
monds, was  set  aside. 

"We'll  take  that,"  the  young  man  decided. 

For  Molly  Mehaffey  and  Patrick — he  seemed  en- 
tirely familiar  with  Bob's  home  relations — he  chose  re- 
spectively a  very  pretty  pearl  pendant  and  a  silver  cigar 
case.  This  done,  he  laid  the  three  purchases  in  a  row 
before  him  and  surveyed  them  critically. 


66 

"There,"  he  said  finally,  "I  think  those  will  help 
make  a  very  satisfactory  Christmas  for  the  lucky  ones. 
But  aren't  you  forgetting  something?" 

"For  Miss  Flinn?  Not  here.  I'm  much  obliged  to 
you,  though,"  Bob  said,  as  he  filled  out  a  check  that 
ran  into  four  figures. 

"O,  it's  been  a  pleasure,  you  may  be  sure,"  the  young 
man  replied  pleasantly.  "I  like  to  spend  money,  even  if 
it  is  some  one  else's." 

When  they  left  the  store,  the  young  man  turned  up 
the  street  with  Bob  in  the  matter-of-fact  way  of  one 
whose  company  is  justified  by  lifelong  acquaintance. 
Bob,  grimly  amused,  permitted  it. 

"It  takes  Christmas  time  to  make  a  fellow  expand. 
There's  a  lot  in  this  'good-will  to  men,'  after  all.  For 
instance,  that  fat  duffer  there,  with  his  arms  full  of 
packages  and  a  grin  spread  all  over  his  person.  Fifty- 
one  weeks  in  the  year  he  never  has  a  thought  higher 
than  his  stomach,  I'll  bet,  but  to-day  he's  happy  all 
through,  because  he  is  going  to  give  things  to  others. 
That's  what  I  like  about  Christmas.  People  rise  above 
their  petty  cares  and  for  a  change  do  a  fine  thing  in 
a  fine,  free-handed  way.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
it  is  inspiringly  dramatic." 

"It's  nonsense.  I  don't  believe  in  giving  Christmas 
presents.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  are  spent 
this  week  in  this  city  by  people  who  have  trouble 
scraping  enough  together  to  make  ends  meet.  Gener- 
osity is  a  weakness,  in  so  far  as  it  exceeds  exact  jus- 
tice. When  it  means  sacrifice  from  the  giver,  it's 
arrant  nonsense." 

"Were  you  weak  and  foolish,  when  you  made  out 
that  big  check  ?" 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE          67 

"That  wasn't  sacrifice.   I  could  afford  it" 

"You're  consistent,  at  any  rate.  But,"  he  nodded 
shrewdly,  "I  am  an  egoist  myself  and  I  understand 
your  point  of  view.  But  I'm  a  different  sort  of  egoist 
and  don't  take  it  for  my  own.  You're  wrong,  though. 
Generosity  is  strength,  a  sublime  strength  that  is  beau- 
tifully dramatic.  I'll  admit,  it  is  the  dramatic  view  of  it 
that  appeals  to  me.  I  always  go  broke  myself  Christ- 
mas time.  And  I  positively  gloat  in  my  bankruptcy. 
Not  because  others  see  it  as  a  fine  thing;  few  people 
have  the  superfine  theatrical  sense  I  have.  But  because 
I  see  it  so  myself,  and  like  to  look  on  at  myself  in  a 
gorgeous  role.  You  don't  understand  that,  do  you?" 

"I  do  not." 

"No,  of  course  not.  You  have  been  too  busy  driv- 
ing ahead,  trampling  the  world  under  your  feet,  to  cul- 
tivate these  finer  pleasures." 

"You  seem  acquainted  with  my  history,"  Bob  re- 
plied dryly. 

"O,  yes,"  the  young  man  said,  laughing.  "I  have 
made  a  study  of  your  case.  As  I  said,  we're  both  ego- 
ists, but  of  different  sorts.  And  yours  is  really  the 
grander  sort,  I  fear.  You're  so  confoundedly  big  and 
powerful,  you  will  never  be  content  until  the  world  is 
at  your  feet,  kowtowing  very  humbly.  All  merely  to 
gratify  your  love  of  your  strong  self.  It  goes  without 
saying,  you  will  never  use  your  power  for  the  sake  of 
the  world.  It  is  characteristic  of  us  big  egoists  that, 
although  we  understand,  we  never  care  to  change  our- 
selves— even  if  we  could.  I  admit  we  are  contempt- 
ible." 

"There  are  some  people  who  would  be  afraid  to  say 
these  things  to  me,"  Bob  interrupted,  half  angrily. 


68  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"O,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  you  know,"  was  the  cheer- 
ful answer.  And  he  continued,  "Yours  is  what  I  call 
grand  opera  egoism.  Now  mine  is  vaudeville.  I  don't 
ask  the  world  to  prostrate  itself  before  me.  All  I  want 
is  that  it  shall  place  me  in  the  foreground,  so  that  I  may 
enjoy  myself  playing  a  striking  role.  I  love  to  be  in  a 
dramatic  situation,  just  to  admire  myself  rising  grace- 
fully to  it.  Of  course,  the  same  principle  underlies  both 
our  natures,  concentrated  selfishness,  self-love.  Were 
you  ever  in  love  ?" 

"Well,  hardly!" 

"Neither  was  I.  It's  a  shame,  too ;  I'd  make  such  a 
splendid  lover.  I'm  not  a  sentimentalist,  though — 
rather  a  sensationalist.  I  love  a  strong  sensation.  I 
like  the  feel  of  doing  the  big,  the  unusual,  the  beautiful 
things.  For  example,  there  is  a  beggar  woman.  I  take 
these  two  five-dollar  bills  out  of  my  pocket  and  say  to 
myself,  'Here  are  ten  dollars,  the  sum  total  of  my  pres- 
ent worldly  wealth.  Office  and  room  rent  come  due  the 
first.  I  must  live  in  the  meantime,  and  there's  no  money 
coming  to  me  until  the  middle  of  next  month.  But  I 
will  give  this  needy  woman  one-half  of  what  I  have.' ' 

He  suited  the  action  to  the  word.  "Now  what  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

"Humph !  That  you  need  a  keeper." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "Don't  you  believe  it. 
That  is  one  of  the  best  investments  I  ever  made.  The 
economy  I'll  have  to  practise  will  be  amply  repaid  by 
the  pleasure  I  get  out  of  this  act.  I'm  not  really  gen- 
erous. But  that  is  a  pretty  thing  and  one  that  comes 
naturally  only  from  a  generous  man.  I  shall  seem  to 
myself  a  generous  fellow  and  get  more  gratification 
out  of  the  feel  of  it  than  real  generosity  would  give. 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE          69 

You  see  ?  The  sensation !  That  is  why  I  have  intruded 
on  you  this  afternoon.  I  like  the  sensation  of  talking 
about  myself  frankly  to  a  man  who  never  saw  me 
before  and  doesn't  give  a  damn  whether  he  ever  sees 
me  again." 

Bob  laughed  loudly,  he  could  not  help  it.  "Well, 
you've  got  nerve,  there's  no  doubt  of  that.  I  stop  at 
this  book-store." 

"I'll  go  along.  I  want  to  deliver  a  homily  with 
that  laugh  of  yours  as  a  text." 

But  this  time  Bob  needed  no  aid  from  the  talk- 
ative stranger ;  the  present  was  for  Kathleen.  As  with" 
the  discriminating  eye  of  the  book-lover  Bob  chose 
a  superbly  bound  set  of  Shakespeare,  the  young  man 
exclaimed, 

"By  Jove!  I  envy  the  one  who  gets  this  present! 
You  love  books  ?" 

"They  are  my  chief  extravagance." 

The  young  man  surveyed  him  thoughtfully.  "I 
hadn't  expected  it  of  you." 

"Well,"  he  continued,  when  they  were  once  more  on 
the  street,  "to  my  homily  and  your  laugh.  Now  that 
was  a  sorry  affair.  It  was  too  awkward  and  incom- 
plete, the  laugh  of  a  man  who  considers  it  a  luxury,  not 
a  necessity,  and  consequently  uses  it  but  seldom.  Here 
is  the  way  to  laugh."  He  threw  back  his  head  and  gave 
vent  to  a  ringing,  mellow  laugh  that  was  a  pleasure  to 
hear.  "Now  that  is  the  chief  trouble  with  you  and  your 
plan  of  existence;  you  don't  exercise  your  risibles 
enough,  literally  and  figuratively  speaking.  Let  laugh- 
ing stand  for  the  little  indulgences  and  gratifications, 
the  rest  from  driving  ambition,  the  frank  friendships — 
the  sweet  things  of  life,  in  short.  The  lack  of  these 


70  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

cripples  the  possibilities  of  your  life.  Laugh  more  and 
you  will  be  better  liked." 

"Have  you  a  thousand  wives  ?"  Bob  affected  to  jeer, 
although  in  truth  he  was  beginning  to  listen  intently. 

"No,  I  have  none.  I  am  a  wise  man,"  was  the  swift 
retort.  "You  have  accomplished  more  than  any  young 
man  I  know  of.  You  are  the  third  strongest  man  po- 
litically in  the  city.  You  are  apparently  rich.  You  have 
accomplished  this  by  dint  of  sheer  strength,  leaving  out 
entirely  the  question  of  personal  popularity.  That's  the 
weak  spot  in  your  armor.  Now  you  have  chosen  poli- 
tics as  your  particular  field.  So  have  I." 

"Then  I  guessed  right,"  Bob  said  to  himself,  and  the 
amused  gleam  died  out  of  his  eyes. 

"Downright  brute  strength  and  the  fear  inspired  by 
it  have  carried  you  through  so  far,  but  if  you  are  going 
further  you  must  consider  the  question  of  personal 
popularity.  A  man  may  boss  a  ward  or  a  district,  where 
he  comes  more  or  less  into  personal  touch  with  the 
people,  by  strength  of  personality.  But  the  wider  the 
area,  the  thinner  and  less  effective  becomes  this  influ- 
ence. Fear  decreases  in  proportion  to  the  square  of  the 
distance  from  the  feared  object,  whereas  popularity 
increases  in  the  same  proportion.  The  American  people 
-Will  fear  and  obey  a  man  because  of  his  strength  as  far 
as  they  can  feel  it  directly.  But  they  will  love  a  shadow 
or  the  creature  of  their  own  imagination,  and  the  far- 
ther removed  the  object,  the  more  deeply  they  love  him. 
Get  the  public  into  the  habit  of  loving  a  man  and  they 
will  keep  on  loving  him — just  because  they  love  him." 

"That's  not  true,"  Bob  interjected  sharply.  "Do  you 
know  more  about  any  other  subject  than  you  do  about 
politics  ?" 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE         71 

"O,  I  know  politics,"  the  young  man  said  calmly.  "I 
know  the  power  of  money  and  of  the  big  corporations 
and  financiers  whom  you  and  I  know  to  be  the  kings  in 
politics.  I  am  speaking  of  the  politicians,  who  stand 
to  capital  in  the  relation  of  attorney  to  client.  I  have 
studied  the  big  political  men  of  our  country  closely, 
and  every  manjack  of  them  has  been  personally  popu- 
lar or,  at  least,  able  to  make  himself  an  attractive  pub- 
liz  figure.  In  our  own  city  take  Steele  for  example. 
It  was  his  personal  popularity  that  held  his  organiza- 
tion together ;  when  he  died,  it  died.  It  was  the  lack  of 
it  that  killed  Harmon.  It  is  the  lack  of  it  that  will 
put  MacPherson  out  within  the  next  five  or  six  years. 
It  is  the  lack  of  it  that  will  keep  you,  out,  if  anything 
can,  of  control  of  the  city,  at  which  I  shrewdly  guess 
you  are  aiming." 

"Perhaps  you  intend  to  capture  the  city  yourself?" 

"It  is  not  beyond  the  possibilities,"  the  stranger 
youth  responded  imperturbably.  "I'll  admit,  though, 
that  you  might  be  able  to  prove  the  exception  to  my 
rule.  You  are  so  infernally  strong,  body  and  soul,"  he 
swept  Bob  with  a  frankly  admiring  glance,  "as  I  have 
been  told  by  those  who  know  you,  and  as  I  feel  it  now 
when  I  meet  you  at  close  quarters,  I  almost  believe 
you  can  do  anything  in  your  own  way.  Still,  even  if 
you  can  accomplish  what  you  want  by  main  force,  it 
would  be  mighty  poor  strategy,  when,  by  the  use  of 
popularity  and  diplomacy,  you  can  get  the  same  thing 
more  quickly  and  more  easily.  A  rapier  is  a  deadlier 
weapon  than  a  meat-ax." 

He  stopped.  And  Bob  took  the  opportunity  to  scru- 
tinize the  man  beside  him,  very  carefully.  It  flashed 
across  his  mind  that  here  was  one  who  would  attract 


72 

the  hero-worshiping  public.  He  saw  a  lithe,  well-set- 
up, springily  carried  figure;  long  dark  hair,  slightly 
curling,  crowning  a  fine  brow  and  a  handsome,  regular 
face  of  a  slightly  Semitic  cast;  an  olive  complexion, 
dark  eyes,  flashing  just  now  in  the  light  of  debate;  a 
finely  molded  chin,  neither  weak  nor  strong,  and  a 
mobile,  sweetly  smiling  mouth — the  mouth  of  a  woman. 
He  was  attractive  where  Bob  was  compelling.  It  struck 
Bob  that  this  young  man — he  was  not  more  than 
twenty-five — would  be  likely  to  get  as  much  out  of  life 
as  he  himself  would. 

"His  figure  is  good.  He  is  the  rapier,  I,  the  meat- 
ax,"  he  thought  to  himself.  "Is  that  all?"  he  added 
aloud. 

The  young  man's  tone  changed  to  one  of  thoughtful, 
not  fearful,  hesitation.  "Unless  you  change,  you  will 
never  attract.  You  are  too  strong,  too  arrogant  in 
your  strength.  The  man  who  says  frankly  to  the 
public,  'You  are  my  legitimate  spoil.  Do  this,  damn 
you,  or  that,  as  I  tell  you,'  will  need  the  strength 
of  God  to  conquer  that  public.  You  must  cultivate 
popularity  yourself  or  work  with  some  one  who  is 
naturally  popular,  as  Harmon  did  with  Steele.  You 
can't  do  the  first;  you  would  have  to  be  made  over. 
You  will  not  earn  popular  regard  by  setting  yourself 
aside  and  fighting  the  public's  battles,  you  are  too  thor- 
oughly the  egoist.  You  need  to  work  with  and  through 
a  man  who  will  give  your  movement  a  popular  tone. 
In  fact,  you  need  me!" 

Bob  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  harshly.  "I'm 
a  politician,  not  a  variety  showman,  you  know." 

The  young  man  betrayed  no  sign  of  irritation.  "I'm 
Hot  a  rattlebrain,"  he  said  with  quiet  confidence.  "You 


are  too  good  a  judge  of  men  not  to  know  that  I  am  a 
popular  man.  I  say  that  without  vanity,  merely  as  a 
fact  that  has  been  demonstrated.  Just  as  I  would  say, 
'This  is  a  house.'  Just  as  you  would  say,  'I  am  strong.' 
There  is  no  particular  reason  for  it  other  than  that  I 
was  born  with  a  talent  for  popularity.  I  have  culti- 
vated that  talent  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  as  a  man 
should  always  cultivate  a  talent.  I  always  succeed  in 
making  people  like  me.  I  sometimes  think  I  should  like 
to  have  an  enemy,  just  for  the  sensation.  When  I  am 
as  far  along  as  you  are,  I  may  permit  myself  the  lux- 
ury. At  present,  however,  I  can't  afford  it." 

Bob  did  not  laugh.  The  naive  candor  of  the  young 
man's  statement  was  impressive.  "So  you  think  I  could 
use  your  popularity  ?" 

"I  don't  like  the  phrase.  Say,  I  could  help  you. 
There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  I  lack  certain  things — good 
generalship,  talent  for  organization  and  the  cool, 
dogged,  fighting  spirit — while  standing  alone.  But  to  a 
man  who  possesses  these  I  can  be  invaluable.  As  I  said, 
I  am  popular.  I  have  the  dramatic  temperament.  I 
should  make  an  attractive  public  figure.  Also  I  am  an 
orator.  This  is  my  other  great  talent,  and  I  have  de- 
veloped it,  too.  While  I  was  at  the  law  school  in  New 
York,  I  made  many  speeches  for  the  practice,  in  their 
city  politics.  They  will  tell  you  of  me  down  there. 
Even  now,  when  I  am,  of  course,  far  from  the  height 
of  my  powers,  I  can  sway  audiences  as  I  suppose  few 
men  in  this  country  can." 

"So  you  propose  an  alliance  with  me?" 

"Why  not  ?  I  have  studied  the  big  men  of  this  city 
very  carefully  and  have  decided  that  you  are  the  one 
who  can  help  me  most  and  whom  I  can  help  most.  You 


74  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

have  what  I  lack.  I  have  what  you  lack.  You  have  al- 
ready a  strong  grip  on  local  affairs,  you  are  in  the  po- 
sition to  exploit  my  talents  at  once,  to  give  them  an 
immediate  value — to  both  of  us.  Furthermore,  I  am 
prepared  to  like  you — which  is  unusual.  You  and  I," 
he  declared  with  a  confident  smile,  "were  made  to  work 
together.  We  fit.  Already  you  prove  that  you  half  like 
me  by  listening  as  you  have  done  to  what  you  consider 
impertinence.  Consider  that  if  I  have  been  tolerated 
one-half  hour  by  you,  there  is  every  chance  that  I  can 
influence  ordinary  men." 

"In  other  words,  you  ask  me  to  share  with  you  what 
power  I  already  have,  to  take  you  into  a  full  partner- 
ship at  once?  That's  modest,  I'm  sure." 

"No,  no !  I  don't  want  any  of  your  power.  Keep  it 
all.  I  will  help  you  to  add  to  it.  But  if  I  help  you  to 
increase  it,  it  is  only  fair  that  you  use  it  to  give  me  the 
public  life  for  which  I  am  fitted.  I  don't  ask  a  full  part- 
nership. I  only  want  to  be  made  your  chief  lieutenant, 
your  officer  in  the  field. 

"But  think  it  over,"  he  concluded.  "There's  no 
hurry.  Take  your  time  and  see  if  you  don't  find  some- 
thing in  the  proposition.  I  stop  at  this  church  to  meet 
a  girl  who  is  at  choir  rehearsal  for  to-morrow." 

For  a  few  moments  Bob  stood  silent  before  him, 
staring  at  him  fixedly,  his  jaw  tight  shut.  He  suddenly 
found  himself  resisting  something  utterly  strange  to 
him.  He  was  a  bold  man  himself;  he  admired  audacity 
in  others.  He  simulated  a  scorn  he  did  not  feel. 

"That's  very  kind,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  with  a  cutting 
sneer.  Then  he  added  contemptuously,  "Do  you  think 
for  a  moment  that  I — that  any  man  in  his  senses — 


75 

would  seriously  consider  such  a  rattle-brained  propo- 
sition ?" 

The  young  man's  face  reddened,  but  his  head  went 
up  proudly,  defiantly.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  flippant. 
But  you  will,"  he  cried.  "You  will  consider,  and  you 
will  accept.  You  know,  as  I  know — or  you  can  easily 
find  out — that  what  I  have  said  is  true.  But  understand 
that  if  you  accept,  it  must  be  on  a  basis  of  equal  friend- 
ship. For  a  friend  who  will  help  me,  in  turn  I  will  give 
myself  and  my  talents  freely.  But  I  will  not  be  used  as 
a  tool  by  one  pretending — " 

Bob  laughed,  in  spite  of  himself.  "Why,  you  are 
prescribing  conditions!  Did  / — or  did  you — suggest 
this — er — partnership,  would  you  call  it  ?" 

"No,  I'm  not  asking  a  partnership,  but  a  friendship, 
Bob  McAdoo !  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ?  But 
no,  of  course  you  don't,  you  poor,  blind  egoist!  But 
I  will  not  be  used  as  a  tool  by  one  pretending  a  friend- 
ship he  does  not  feel.  I'm  not  dependent  on  you — 
you've  enemies  in  this  city,  and  they  realize  my  value. 
Whether  you  accept  or  not  has  no  bearing  on  my  fu- 
ture. I  believe  in  my  star,  as  you  must  believe  in  yours. 
What  I  want  of  the  world  I  shall  take.  But  I  prefer 
to  have  it  from  you.  And  you  will  accept !  For  I  like 
you,  Bob  McAdoo,  and  when  I  like  a  man  he  can't  help 
but  accept  my  friendship. 

"But,"  he  added,  his  voice  dropping  again  to  the  or- 
dinary conversational  tone,  "I  have  forgotten  to  tell 
you  my  name.  I  am — " 

All  the  primitive  savagery  in  Bob's  nature  suddenly 
rushed  to  his  aid  in  his  struggle  against  that  new  in- 
ward something.  A  hot  desire  filled  him  to  take  in  his. 


76  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

strong  hands  the  handsome  youth  who  with  such  ar- 
rogant certainty  demanded  his  friendship,  to  crush  him, 
to  hurt  him  until  he  should  cry  for  mercy. 

"You  are  Paul  Remington,"  he  cried  roughly.  "I 
know  you.  There  can't  be  two  such  idiots.  You're  the 
fellow  who  is  trying  to  fight  me  in  my  district.  You 
fool!  What  do  you  suppose  I  care  for  your  ranting 
theatricals,  your  star,  or  your  boasted  popularity?  If 
you  had  come  to  me  first,  I  might  have  listened  to  you, 
but  you  chose  to  fight  me.  Now  you  must  take  the  con- 
sequences. You  may  as  well  give  up  all  hope  of  po- 
litical rise  in  this  city,  young  man,  for  it's  my  business 
to  keep  you  down.  No  man  fights  me  and  lives !" 

The  young  man  answered  with  a  fearless  laugh. 
"You  indulge  in  ranting  theatricals  yourself,  I  think. 
But  you  can't  do  it.  You're  not  God,  you  know.  I'm 
not  afraid  of  you,  Bob  McAdoo.  Au  revoir!" 

He  turned  and  entered  the  church,  leaving  Bob  to 
stand  staring  at  the  swinging  door. 

In  the  vestibule  Remington  stopped  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  the  woman's  gesture. 

"Not  afraid  of  him  ?  What  a  pose !  I  was  fearfully 
afraid.  But  he  didn't  know  it.  I  had  the  courage  of  my 
pose!  But  he  will  accept — I  saw  it.  I  believe  in  my 
star?  No,  but  I  believe  in  his!  I  will  hitch  my  wagon 
to  a  star — his  star.  And,  please  God,  he  will  not  re- 
gret it." 

He  took  a  step  toward  the  inner  church,  then  stopped 
again. 

"And  that's  a  pose,  too.  Good  God !  Shall  I  never  be 
rid  of  this  habit?  I  never  know  myself  when  I  am  act- 
ing and  when  sincere.  I'd  like  to  be  absolutely,  un- 
doubtedly sincere  once — just  once — for  the  sensation !" 


CHAPTER  III 

CHRISTMAS  SCENES 

Atf  OLD-FASHIONED  Christmas  came  that  year, 
the  city  covered  with  an  unaccustomed  robe  of 
purest  white ;  the  sky  swept  clean  of  cloud  and  smoke 
by  the  blustering  western  wind ;  the  sun  shining  bril- 
liantly, a  Christmas  gift  to  the  Steel  City;  the  air  elec- 
tric with  the  keen  snap  of  ten  degrees  above  zero.  You 
felt  Christmas  that  day,  the  joyous  relaxation,  the 
pleasurable  excitement. 

Yet  the  spirit  of  good-will  was  not  universal,  as 
three  men  in  that  city  could  have  testified.  They  shiv- 
ered in  a  down-town  office  and  glowered  hatefully  at 
one  another.  They  were  distinguishable  by  their  chins. 
Number  One  possessed  a  square,  clean-cut,  aggressive 
chin.  Number  Two's  was  narrow  and  protruded  vi- 
ciously out  from  the  mouth,  like  a  hook  broken  sharply 
off;  you  felt  that  it  would  have  reached  the  nose,  had 
it  not  met  some  untoward  accident.  Number  Three 
had  no  chin  at  all  worth  considering. 

"It's  no  use  talking,"  Number  One  was  saying 
firmly.  "I  won't  have  it.  He  must  never  come  to 
trial." 

"But,  heavens!  man,"  Number  Two  responded  im- 
patiently. "The  man's  so  plainly  guilty.  It's  a 
flagrant  case." 

77 


78  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Guilty  as  hell,"  Number  Three  added.  "Caught 
with  the  goods  on.  I  couldn't  help  getting  a  convic- 
tion if  I  tried." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  he  mustn't  come  to  trial." 

"But  think  what  it  means!"  Number  Two  argued, 
his  hook-like  chin  working  excitedly.  "Haven't  we 
enough  to  face  just  now,  with  the  whole  city  sore  as 
boils  over  that  franchise  business?  Everybody  knows 
all  about  this  thing.  The  newspapers  have  published 
beforehand  the  testimony  of  the  bell-boy  who  over- 
heard him  offering  to  take  the  bribe.  They  have  pub- 
lished facsimiles  of  the  check,  signed  by  Henderson 
and  indorsed  by  Malassey.  Every  morning  there  is 
a  fresh  editorial  howling  for  his  conviction.  The 
whole  county  is  yammering,  'Malassey  must  go  to  jail !' 
Our  credit  is  a  little  strained,  as  it  is ;  we  must  do  some- 
thing to  placate  these  howling  fools." 

The  square  chin  hardened.  "Let  'em  yammer.  Ma- 
lassey shan't  be  the  goat.  I'll  not  have  it." 

"Then  let  him  skip  out  for  a  couple  of  years.  You 
and  I  can  pay  his  expenses." 

"No,"  said  the  square-jawed  man.  "That's  not  my 
way.  He  stays  right  here  in  the  city." 

"I  can't  see,"  Number  Three  exclaimed  petulantly, 
"why  you're  so  positive  about  it.  What  is  it  to  you 
whether  he  goes  to  jail  or  Halifax?" 

"Because  he  belongs  to  me.  And  no  man  of  mine  is 
going  to  be  a  scapegoat  for  others'  sins." 

"But  what  about  my  friends?"  Number  Two  de- 
manded. "What  about  Jim  here  ?" 

"Yes,  what  about  me?"  whined  the  man  with  the 
inconsiderable  chin.  "Why,  only  this  morning  the 
Leader  denounced  my  administration  as  'the  most  in- 


CHRISTMAS  SCENES  79 

competent,  corrupt  and  easily  manipulated  the  district 
attorney's  office  has  ever  known.'  Nice  Christmas  gift, 
isn't  it?" 

"I  guess  the  Leader  is  about  right,"  said  Number 
One  with  an  ugly  sneer. 

"That's  as  much  your  fault  as  mine,"  the  district 
attorney  retorted  surlily.  "Most  of  it  has  come 
through  keeping  your  damned,  grafting  heelers  out  of 
the  penitentiary,  where  they  belong.  And  if  I  let  this 
thing  slide  through,  I  might  as  well  go  and  bury  my- 
self, for  I'll  be  dead  forevermore." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that  before  you  stirred 
up  the  matter,"  said  the  man  with  the  square  chin, 
keeping  his  eyes  on  Number  Two. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Number  Two 
growled. 

"Bah !  MacPherson,  I'm  not  a  fool.  Do  you  think  I 
haven't  seen  through  your  scheme?  You're  trying  to 
discredit  me  through  Malassey,  because  he's  my  coun- 
cilman. O,  don't  bother  denying  it.  You  couldn't 
convince  me.  You  aren't  a  good  liar.  I  know  you, 
MacPherson,  and  how  you  have  been  trying  to  create  a 
sentiment  against  me  in  the  city  and  trouble  in  my  own 
district.  But  this  is  one  trick  you  lose,  that's  sure. 
Either  this  indictment  is  pigeonholed — or  you  fight 
me."  He  brought  his  clenched  fist  savagely  down  on 
the  desk. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  you,"  MacPherson  snarled. 

The  square-chinned  man  laughed  harshly.  "That's 
another  lie !  You  are  afraid  of  me.  You  wouldn't  be 
worth  the  powder  it  takes  to  blow  you  up,  i£  you  didn't 
have  me  and  the  Sixth's  majorities,  while  I  can  go 
out  and  get  the  old  Harmon  crowd  together  and  beat 


So  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

you  all  along  the  line  day  after  to-morrow.  I  don't 
want  to  do  it,  but  if  this  trial  goes  on,  I  will.  Now 
put  up  or  shut  up !  Is  Malassey  tried  ?" 

There  was  silence  a  minute. 

"No!"  The  monosyllable  sounded  more  like  a 
wolf's  bark  than  a  human  voice. 

The  square-chinned  man  laughed  again.  "All  right. 
There's  a  good  deal  of  profanity  packed  away  in  that 
'no.'  Save  it  until  I'm  gone."  He  put  on  his  hat  and 
left  the  office. 

"My  God!  what  a  Christmas!"  moaned  the  district 
attorney. 

"How  I  hate  that  fellow!"  MacPherson  snarled 
wolfishly.  "Some  day  I'll  get  him  where  I  want  him. 
And  then — "  His  distorted  face  was  not  a  pleasant 
sight. 

Outside,  the  other  man  was  saying  to  himself,  "It's 
war  to  the  death  from  now  on,  until  one  of  us  gets  the 
other.  And  I  don't  think  I'll  be  the  victim.  I  almost 
wish  he  had  refused,  then  I  should  have  had  an  excuse 
to  break  openly  with  him.  I'd  do  it,  too,  but — this  is 
weakness.  Build  slow  and  strong.  I'm  glad  there  is 
to  be  fighting,  though.  It  will  help  to  kill  this  devil  of 
restlessness." 

In  a  secluded  corner  of  the  city's  most  fashionable 
restaurant  sat  a  man  and  a  woman  at  early  dinner. 
They  were  evidently  brother  and  sister,  having  the 
same  dark  hair  and  eyes,  the  same  regular  features  of 
the  same  slightly  Semitic  cast.  The  man  was  talking. 

"And  so  I  laid  hold  on  the  man  who  has  life  by  the 
throat.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  your  most  un- 
worthy brother?" 


CHRISTMAS  SCENES  81 

"No  one  but  you  would  have  done  it.  What  audac- 
ity!" 

"Why  not?  I  can't  afford  not  to  be  audacious.  It 
is  the  only  role  that  suits  me." 

"Ah !  But  will  you  win  with  all  your  boldness  ?  You 
say  yourself  that  he  threatened  to  crush  you." 

"Of  course,  he  resisted.  Yielding  is  a  lesson  he 
hasn't  learned  yet — quite.  You  should  have  seen  his 
bulldog  jaw  clench  and  his  steely  eyes  flash  as  he  cried, 
'He  who  fights  me  dies !'  Ye  gods,  but  he  was  a  terri- 
ble figure  of  raw,  elemental  strength!  I  trembled 
myself,  although  I  laughed  at  him.  But  he  was  fight- 
ing me,  and  it  took  all  his  strength  to  resist.  I  felt  it 
instinctively.  That  is  why  I  scent  victory  ahead.  I 
am  the  first  who  has  ever  called  all  his  forces  into 
action." 

"But  if,  as  you  say,  he  is  so  strong  and  so  intensely 
selfish,  then  perhaps  his  strength  and  selfishness  may 
form  a  shield  proof  against  even  your  shafts." 

"My  dear  sister,  the  doubt  is  unworthy  of  you.  Rest 
assured,  he  will  yield.  To-night  will  prove  me  right." 

Her  eyes  rested  proudly  on  him.  "Yes,  the  doubt  is 
unworthy.  When  did  you  ever  fail?  Who  can  resist 
the  witchery  of  your  magnetism?" 

"It  is  witchery,  isn't  it  ?  But  we  come  rightly  by  it. 
Strange,  how,  after  five  generations  of  Puritanism,  our 
breed  should  cast  back  and  produce  in  you  and  me  cop- 
ies of  our  Hebrew  ancestress !  Glorious  woman !  Who 
fell  in  love  with  a  Puritan,  abandoned  her  people  to 
marry  her  lover,  deserted  her  husband  to  go  on  the 
stage  and  bring  the  world  to  her  feet.  A  magnetic 
sensationalist.  She  lived !  And  we  are  her  children." 

The  woman  shuddered.    "Don't !   I  always  think  of 


82 

her  tragic  disappearance  from  the  world  and  her  hide- 
ous end.  Perhaps  that  is  part  of  our  heritage,  too." 

"Nonsense!  Of  what  use  are  five  generations  of 
Puritanism,  if  not  to  save  us  from  that?  But  even  if  it 
were  not  so,  what  of  it?  While  she  lived,  she  lived! 
As  I  shall,  through  him." 

"Ah !  but  will  you  be  good  for  him  ?  Even  in  our 
philosophy  there  is  the  theory  of  equivalents." 

"Yes.  Of  course,  that  isn't  why  I  seek  him — you 
and  I  have  no  illusions.  But  I  like  him  and,  please 
God,  I  will  be  a  good  friend.  I  will  teach  him  our 
philosophy.  My  friendship  shall  discover  to  him  the 
tremendous  appetite  for  life  hidden  away  in  the  big 
soul  of  him.  Through  me  he  shall  live." 

"Let  us  hope  so.  And  that  you  aren't  playing  with 
fire.  But,  to  change  the  subject,  what  of  your  Lady  of 
Dreams?" 

His  mobile  face  became  dreamy,  and  he  murmured, 
half  to  himself. 

"It  is  strange.  I  have  the  feeling  that  I  am  coming 
nearer  to  her.  She  grows  more  real  to  me  every  day. 
I  can  see  her  now,  with  her  glorious  hair,  her  sad  eyes, 
and  her  beautiful  cold  mouth  with  the  tinge  of  bitter- 
ness. She  will  come,  of  that  I  am  certain." 

The  woman  shook  her  head,  smiling. 

"You're  a  strange  mixture,  Paul."  She  leaned  for- 
ward and  looked  into  his  eyes  searchingly.  "I  wonder 
why  we  are  as  we  are,  you  and  I  ?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "God  knows!  But 
come,  enough  of  serious  things.  My  watch  says,  just 
one-half  hour  until  I  must  start  for  the  scene  of  battle, 
enough  to  see  you  in  your  train — if  you  insist  on  leav- 
ing to-night  ?" 


CHRISTMAS  SCENES  83 

"I  must.   I  have  my  battle  to  fight,  across  the  seas." 
"Then  a  toast.     To  our  fortunes!     And  may  life 
always  glow  red  for  us!" 

"Ah !  I'm  afraid  of  that  toast !    And  of  our  battles !" 
But  they  touched  glasses  and  drank. 

"The  refusal  of  the  district  attorney  to  prosecute 
this  flagrant  crime  is  an  outrage  upon  the  county.  The 
audacity  of  our  bosses  in  refusing  to  yield  to  the  popu- 
lar demand  in  this  matter  would  be  inexplicable,  were 
not  the  ruthless  hand  of  a  certain  one  of  our  politicians 
plainly  felt.  .  .  .  It  is  time  this  man  was  unseated. 
It  is  not  the  first  occasion  on  which  he  has  defied,  and 
forced  others  to  defy,  public  opinion,  boldly  and 
openly  and  with  the  brutal  disregard  of  others'  rights 
characteristic  of  the  bar-room  bully.  He  is  a  disgrace 
to  the  community.  Of  all  the  men  prominent  in  the 
public  eye  we  know  of  none  who  stands  forth  so  repul- 
sively as  does  Robert  McAdoo.  He  represents  all  that 
is  brutal  and  shameful  in  American  politics." 

In  the  fading  twilight  the  man  against  whom  this 
attack  was  directed  read  the  bitter  words,  the  conclud- 
ing paragraph  of  an  editorial  in  the  evening  Press. 
When  he  had  finished  its  perusal,  he  tossed  the  sheet 
aside  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  a  faint  unpleasant 
smile  playing  across  his  face. 

"He  has  begun  already.  The  fool !  He  forgets  he 
is  attacking  himself  as  well  as  me.  To  such  lengths  will 
passion  carry  a  man !" 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  young  woman 
burst  into  the  room.  At  twenty-eight,  Kathleen  Flinn 
was  still  unmarried;  to  the  wonderment  of  her  many 
friends,  since  she  seemed  made  for  the  home-life.  She 


84  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

was  beautiful,  with  the  beauty  of  health  and  of  the 
cheery,  unselfish  spirit  which  made  her  a  woman 
among-  women.  In  the  Fourth  Ward  school,  of  which 
she  was  principal,  thanks  to  Bob's  political  influence,  a 
thousand  boys  and  girls  loved  her  with  an  unwavering 
devotion  they  did  not  always  accord  their  parents. 
The  older  generation  of  the  Fourth  maintained  the 
same  attitude  toward  her,  less  frankly  perhaps;  trou- 
ble and  sickness  must  seek  well-hidden  corners  indeed 
to  escape  the  searching  eye  of  "Miss  Kathleen."  She 
always  remained  a  mystery  to  Bob  McAdoo. 

"What  a  shame!"  she  cried  sympathetically,  holding 
out  a  folded  newspaper. 

"So  you've  read  it,  too.  Nice  Christmas  gift,  isn't 
it?"  Bob  smiled  in  amused  contempt.  "I  wouldn't 
care  about  it,  if  I  were  you." 

"Don't  you  care  yourself  ?" 

"I  ?  Why,  no.  I  know  the  animus  of  the  editorial, 
and  the  man  who  inspired  it." 

"But  think  of  the  many  who  will  read  and  believe  it." 

"Then  you  don't  think  it  true?"  He  might  have 
asked  her  belief  in  the  theory  of  evolution,  so  coolly 
impersonal  and  uninterested  was  his  tone. 

/'No,  I  don't,"  she  answered  warmly.  "I  see  the 
fineness  in  your  strength,  and  know  you  don't  'repre- 
sent all  that  is  brutal  and  shameful  in  American  poli- 
tics.' It  hurts  me  to  read  such  cruel,  unjust  abuse." 

"You  are  a  wonderful  woman,  Kathleen.  Always 
making  others'  troubles  your  own.  No  wonder  people 
love  you!" 

"Ah!  but  it  isn't  general  interest  in  people,  it's  my 
particular  interest  in  you,  that  makes  me  angry  at 
this." 


CHRISTMAS  SCENES  85 

"And  why  should  you  care  about  me?" 

"Because  I  know  such  attacks  are  apt  to  make  them- 
selves true,  by  embittering  the  man  assailed.  And  be- 
cause I  think  of  your  wonderful  possibilities.  No, 
don't  laugh,  please.  I  know  what  you  are  now,  but  I 
know,  too,  what  you  will  become.  I  know  that  some 
day  you  will  be  and  do  far  more  and  better  than  you 
have  yet  set  your  eyes  on." 

"Ah !  then  you  care  only  because  of  what  I  shall  do 
when  this  mysterious  change  takes  place  ?  It  isn't  that 
you  like  me?"  Again  his  tone  voiced  a  purely  imper- 
sonal inquiry,  with  no  hint  of  disappointment  in  it. 

"Why  should  I  ?"  she  laughed  frankly,  with  a  girlish 
toss  of  her  head. 

"Why,  indeed  ?"  he  smiled  back,  pleasantly  for  him. 
"But  won't  you  sit  down?" 

"You  were  slow  giving  the  invitation!"  she  said 
gaily.  "But  I  accept,  for  a  few  minutes.  Because  I 
want  to  thank  you  for  the  beautiful  books." 

"Don't,"  he  said,  again  pleasantly.  "I  still  owe  you 
more  than  I  can  pay."  She  did  not  try  to  thank  him 
further. 

For  some  minutes  they  sat  silent  before  the  fire, 
the  man  losing  himself  in  contemplation  of  the  dancing 
flames,  or  what  he  saw  therein.  Kathleen  observed 
him  furtively,  with  the  sensation  of  beholding  a 
stranger.  Whether  from  the  softening  effect  of  the 
firelight,  or  of  his  relaxation,  or  of  his  unexpressed 
thought — she  did  not  attempt  to  analyze  the  cause — he 
seemed  strangely  less  harsh  than  she  was  used  to  see 
him.  His  face  was  merely  strong,  without  its  sug- 
gestion of  cruelty ;  his  eyes,  too,  in  his  abstraction,  lost 
their  customary  coldness.  She  had  never  known  him 


86  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

so — she  cast  about  for  the  word — human.  It  was  not 
her  habit  to  visit  him  in  his  library.  She  had  come  this 
evening  only  on  a  sudden  sympathetic  impulse ;  she  did 
not  regret  her  impulse. 

He  stirred  from  his  contemplation  of  the  fire. 

"I  have  to  be  honest  with  you,  Kathleen.  You  were 
wrong  a  bit  ago,  when  you  said  I  wouldn't  defy  public 
opinion  without  a  valid  reason.  I  happen  to  have  a 
good  reason  in  this  case.  Or,  at  least,  it  seems  so  to 
me.  The  man  back  of  the  whole  proceeding  hates  me; 
he  is  seeking  to  discredit  me  through  the  weakness  of 
another  man.  I  spoiled  his  pretty  scheme.  This  edi- 
torial is  his  sneaking  way  of  venting  his  spleen.  He 
does  it  only  because  he  knows  I  can't  well  break  with 
him  now.  Though  he  hurts  me  less  than  himself. 
However,  I  don't  always  have  so  good  a  reason — in 
your  eyes,  at  least — for  my  actions.  I  never  offered  a 
bribe,  legally  speaking,  because  it  has  never  been  neces- 
sary. I  would,  though,  if  occasion  demanded.  Last 
spring,  in  that  franchise  business,  I  defied  public  opin- 
ion, when  no  one  else  dared  to  do  it,  because  I  needed 
the  money  in  it.  You  are  perhaps  revising  your  opin- 
ion as  to  my  fineness.  If  to  trample  carelessly  over  the 
desires  of  others  is  brutal  and  brutality  is  shameful — 
and  it  probably  is,  judged  by  your  standards — then  I  do 
represent  all  that  is  brutal  and  shameful  in  American 
politics.  It  is  true — that  editorial,  but — I  don't  care." 

"Ah!"  Kathleen  leaned  forward  with  a  quick,  im- 
pulsive movement.  "Don't  you  want  me  to  like  you, 
to  believe  in  you  ?" 

"I'm  not  sure."  She  laughed  outright  at  his  evident 
hesitation.  "But  you  are  an  exception.  Long  ago  I 
determined  to  make  my  struggle  alone.  My  own 


CHRISTMAS  SCENES  87 

weight  was  quite  enough,  without  adding  that  of  oth- 
ers, as,  being  what  I  am,  I  inevitably  must  if  I  assumed 
the  responsibilities  of  friendship.  In  other  and  uglier 
words — since  I  was  placed  here  in  the  eternal  scramble, 
by  a  power  over  which  I  had  no  control,  I  proposed  to 
get  on  top,  no  matter  over  whom  I  had  to  scramble. 
And  I  didn't  propose  to  put  myself  in  relations  where  I 
should  hesitate  to  trample  over  any  one,  when  desir- 
able. There  you  have  it.  I  never  put  it  more  frankly 
to  myself.  Very  brutal,  no  doubt,  according  to  your 
standards.  Though  I've  noticed  that  to  one's  own 
eyes  strength  in  another  is  brutality,  just  as  selfishness 
in  another  generally  consists  of  thwarting  one's  own 
selfishness." 

"And  does  the  theory  satisfy?"  she  asked.  "You 
put  it  in  the  past  tense,  I  notice." 

He  frowned  impatiently.  "I  should  lie  to  any  one 
but  you,  Kathleen.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  It  brings 
the  desired  results,  but  it  doesn't  satisfy — you're  Irish 
enough  to  understand  that,  I  hope  ?  Because  the  strug- 
gle is  so  ridiculously  easy.  Really,  the  world  is  a  very 
feeble  opponent  to  a  man  who  sets  about  its  conquest 
determinedly  and  systematically.  It  is  just  about  able 
to  make  it  interesting  for  an  ordinary  man.  It's  child's 
play  for  me.  Sometimes  I  long  for  a  real  struggle, 
one  that  would  test  my  muscles  to  the  limit.  That's  one 
reason  why  I  defy  public  opinion  so  often — it  increases 
the  difficulties  and  gives  me  the  chance  to  fight.  Being 
so  brutal,  I  naturally  like  fighting." 

For  some  time  Kathleen  stared  thoughtfully  into  the 
fire. 

"I  suspect  the  only  force  that  will  give  you  the  su- 
preme test  you  desire  is — yourself,"  she  said  at  length, 


88  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

and  then  demanded  abruptly,  "Why  don't  you  abandon 
your  theory?  You  admit  it  doesn't  satisfy?" 

He  laughed  unpleasantly.  "I'm  as  confidential  as  a 
sentimental  girl,  to-day.  I  may  as  well  go  the  whole 
length.  Because  I'm  afraid." 

"Bob  McAdoo  afraid !"  Kathleen's  irony  never  car- 
ried a  sting. 

"Yes— of  Bob  McAdoo." 

She  arose  and  looked  down  on  him,  pityingly. 

"Bob,  you  make  me  understand,  as  I  could  never  un- 
derstand before,  the  horror  in  the  meaning  of  a  cer- 
tain word — " 

"Don't  mind  me.  I'm  in  a  humor  for  truth-telling 
just  now." 

"Loneliness !" 

Without  waiting  for  his  reply,  she  left  the  room. 
Bob  stood  gazing  at  the  door  through  which  she  had 
disappeared. 

"Loneliness !  I  didn't  expect  that.  But  it  hits  close. 
God !  I  am  lonely.  And  yet — !  That  woman  is  a  living 
denial  of  my  theory.  Hers  is  the  exact  opposite — serv- 
ice, always  service.  And  she  gets  far  more  out  of  life 
than  I  with  all  my  brutality,  or  a  thousand  Remingtons 
with  his  love  of  sensation.  Nevertheless,  I  am  far — 
humph!  How  trite  phrases  will  slip  into  a  man's 
thoughts !  I  was  about  to  say,  'far  from  the  kingdom 
of  God!" 

For  that  evening  Haggin's  back  room  had  assumed 
its  official  habit.  This  was  accomplished  by  consolidat- 
ing the  three  small  tables  into  one.  Around  this  ob- 
long sat  a  dozen  men.  The  smoke  from  their  cigars 
filled  the  room  with  a  thick  haze  through  which  the 


CHRISTMAS  SCENES  89 

faces  peered  mistily.  A  green-shaded  student  lamp 
had  been  placed  in  the  center  of  the  table,  to  permit 
the  secretary  to  take  notes  more  easily.  But  the  secre- 
tary had  forgotten  his  notes.  Nor  were  the  men  now 
smoking ;  they  had  refrained  so  long  that  their  cigars, 
mechanically  held,  had  ceased  to  fume.  The  men 
leaned  forward  over  the  table,  silent,  amazed,  intent  on 
the  words  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  a  very  handsome 
young  man  in  evening  dress — the  first  garment  of  that 
sort  to  penetrate  the  fastnesses  of  Irishtown,  as  one 
may  well  suppose.  It  was  not  what  the  speaker  said 
that  held  his  small  audience  spellbound,  though  the  sim- 
ple words — carefully  prepared,  however — were  an  ef- 
fective bit  of  pleading.  It  was  the  startling  fact  that 
this  young  "silk-stocking"  had  dared  to  defy  the  "old 
man,"  and  that  his  nerve  had  shown  no  diminution 
when  confronted  by  the  boss  in  person.  Across  the 
table  from  the  young  man  sat  Bob  McAdoo,  motionless 
and  inscrutable  as  the  sphinx,  his  mouth  twisted  in  a 
peculiar,  wry  smile. 

The  plea  ceased.  All  eyes  were  turned  to  the  boss. 
"Is  that  all  ?"  He  spoke  quietly,  but  the  words  some- 
how carried  a  perceptible  sting.  The  young  man  flushed 
and  sprang  impulsively  to  his  feet  again. 

"No,"  his  voice  rang  out,  "it  is  not  all.  There's  one 
thing  more — for  you,  Boss  McAdoo!  You've  given 
your  orders  that  Smith  be  set  aside  and  Stoughton  be 
given  his  place,  for  no  good  reason,  but  wholly  arbi- 
trarily, just  because  it  happens  to  please  you.  These 
other  fellows  may  obey  your  orders.  They  almost  cer- 
tainly will.  But  so  long  as  I  am  on  this  committee,  my 
ward  votes  for  Smith.  You  promised  to  crush  me,  if  I 
stuck  to  this.  All  right !  You'll  find  I  can  take  a  lot  of 


90  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

crushing.  Your  brutal  threats  don't  frighten  me — you 
damned  bully!" 

Bob  rose  slowly  to  his  full  height  The  rest  of  the 
committee,  too,  stood  up,  involuntarily.  Bob's  eyes 
were  glued  to  the  handsome,  flushed  face  across  the 
table.  The  others'  glances  were  fastened  on  his  big 
right  fist.  "Ha !"  they  breathed,  as  they  saw  it  clench 
convulsively.  More  than  one  face  went  pale;  they 
expected  nothing  less  than  to  see  a  murder  done.  But 
Bob's  hand  unclenched  immediately.  He  reached  for- 
ward and  removed  the  green  shade  from  the  lamp. 
The  harsh,  white  glare,  freed  from  its  prison,  flung 
the  face  of  the  defiant  man  across  the  table  into  sharp 
relief.  Bob  continued  to  gaze  sharply  into  Remington's 
eyes,  the  peculiar,  wry  smile  persisting.  Without  drop- 
ping his  eyes,  Remington  took  from  his  pocket  a  silver 
case,  selected  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it.  There  was  no 
perceptible  tremor  in  his  hand  during  this  theatric  per-* 
formance.  For  a  few  long-drawn-out  moments  they 
stood  thus,  locked  in  a  battle  of  the  eyes.  Then  Rem- 
ington laughed  aloud,  insolently. 

"Put  the  motion,"  Bob  commanded  quietly,  main- 
taining his  steady  gaze. 

"It  has  been  moved  and  seconded  that  this  commit- 
tee indorse  Stoughton  for  the  legislative  nomination," 
the  chairman  repeated  mechanically.  "All  in  favor — 

"Aye,"  said  all  but  Remington  and  Bob.  The  chair- 
man paused. 

"All  opposed."    The  suggestion  came  from  Bob. 

"No !"  Remington's  voice  rang  out. 

"I  guess  that  settles  it,  Remington?" 

"It  settles  the  immediate  question,"  was  the  defiant 
answer. 


CHRISTMAS  SCENES  91 

"Meeting's  adjourned."  Bob  motioned  the  commit- 
teemen  out  of  the  room. 

There  was  a  general  relighting  of  cigars,  the  strength 
and  rapidity  of  the  puffed  clouds  indicating  a  relief 
that  the  little  scene  was  over. 

"Nothin'  but  a  drink  as  high  as  the  ceiling  will  do 
me  after  that,"  whispered  one.  "Reminds  me  of  the 
night  the  old  man  licked  Haggin." 

"Me,  too,  only  there  wasn't  no  scrap,"  and  there  was 
a  shade  of  regret  in  the  low-voiced  reply.  "I  thought 
fer  a  while,  though,  to  buy  flowers  fer  the  kid's  coffin. 
Five  years  ago,  I'd  had  to,  too." 

"O,  Remington,"  Bob  said  casually,  "just  wait  a 
minute,  will  you  ?" 

"Well  ?"  he  turned  toward  Bob  with  a  certain  grace- 
ful recklessness. 

"Here,  smoke  this,"  Bob  said  gruffly,  as  he  handed 
over  a  cigar.  "I  don't  like  to  see  a  man  smoking  cig- 
arettes." 

Remington  hesitated,  then  accepted  it. 

"And  I  wouldn't  take  this  business  to  heart,  if  I 
were  you.  We  have  to  preserve  discipline  in  the  or- 
ganization, you  know.  There's  nothing  personal  in 
it." 

The  handsome  face  flushed  eagerly.  "Do  you  mean 
that  ?  Then  call  in  the  boys.  I  want  to  apologize  for 
calling  you  a  bully." 

"No!  Come  now,  no  theatricals.  You're  too  good 
a  man  to  be  wasted  in  such  childishness." 

So  the  descendant  of  the  renegade  Jewess  won  his 
fight. 

Bob,    returning   home,    found    Kathleen    alone    in 


92  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

the  library.  He  entered  and  began  without  prelimi- 
nary: 

"Kathleen,  this  afternoon  I  told  you  that  I  didn't 
want  any  friends.  You  remember?" 

"Yes." 

"I  lied  to  you,  Kathleen,  when  I  said  that." 

"No,  Bob,  you  lied  to  yourself." 

"That's  true,  too.  At  that  very  moment  I  was  fight- 
ing a  longing  for  a  certain  friendship." 

"I  wouldn't  fight  too  hard,  if  I  were  you,  Bob." 

"The  other  day  a  young  chap — a  fool,  an  ass,  judged 
by  my  standards — met  me  on  the  street  and,  without 
introduction  or  by-your-leave,  demanded  my  friend- 
ship. He  was  most  theatrical  and  asinine — and  I  liked 
him  for  it !  He  had  been  fighting  me  politically,  though 
he's  a  greenhorn.  I  told  him  I  would  crush  him,  kill 
him  politically.  To-night  he  continued  his  opposition. 
He  took  the  opportunity  to  tell  me  a  few  things  about 
myself  which  he  seemed  to  think  I  had  overlooked — I 
have  not  crushed  him.  I  shall  not.  He — he  has  much 
that  I  lack.  And  I — ypu  hit  it  exactly — I  have  been 
very  lonely.  I'm  going  to  test  your  theory,  Kathleen. 
Good  night !" 


CHAPTER  IV 

GROWTH  IN  GRACE 

SO,  after  thirty  years'  walking  among  his  fellows, 
Robert  McAdoo  succumbed  to  that  force  which  we 
call  personal  attraction.  You  are  not  to  suppose  that  he 
experienced  immediately  a  complete  change  in  his 
habit  of  thought  and  course  of  feeling.  It  was  months 
before  Remington  dared  to  address  Bob  by  his  first 
name.  The  friendship,  if  such  it  could  be  called  at  the 
beginning,  took  its  tone  from  Bob,  rather  than  from 
the  young  lawyer — quiet  and  undemonstrative;  with 
a  wisdom  born  of  instinct  rather  than  of  deliberation, 
the  latter  consistently  subordinated  himself  to  the  older 
man,  never  seeking  to  oppose  his  will.  And  though 
the  intimacy  became  closer,  always  Bob  must  listen  to 
habit's  vigorous  protest  against  the  change.  It  was  not 
until  Remington  won  his  way  to  the  legislature  that 
the  protest  ceased  to  make  itself  heard. 

The  friendship,  as  those  who  could  observe  closely 
at  last  came  to  recognize  it  to  their  utter  mystification, 
was  good  for  McAdoo.  Under  its  influence  he  warmed 
gradually,  there  was  perceptibly  less  harshness  in  his 
demeanor.  He  never  repeated  his  outburst  of  con- 
fidence to  Kathleen,  but  he  became  generally  less  taci- 
turn. He  laughed  more. 

The  Flinn  home  had  for  some  years  been  in  a  fine 

93 


94  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

old  house  standing  in  a  quarter  whence  the  tide  of 
fashion  had  recently  ebbed.  Bob  had  bought  it  as  a 
speculation,  but  finding  no  immediate  purchaser,  had 
moved  himself  and  his  charges  into  it;  much  to  the 
outward  pride  and  inward  perturbation  of  Patrick  and 
Norah.  One  evening  Paul  Remington  entered  the 
house  and  was  shown  into  the  library,  where  Kathleen 
sat  alone,  sewing. 

"Well,  my  Lady  Charity!  Working  as  usual — 
and  for  what  impecunious  kid  this  time?  Here's  my 
excuse  for  coming."  He  tossed  an  armful  of  roses 
into  her  lap. 

"O,  you  extravagant  boy!"  she  cried,  burying  her 
face  in  the  velvety  petals.  "You  have  more  of  the  little 
graces  than  any  one  I  know.  But  you  shouldn't.  You 
can't  afford  it,  you  silly  boy."  She  selected  one  of  the 
roses  and  drew  it  gently  over  her  cheek. 

"Which  is  the  rose?"  he  asked  with  a  gaily  elaborate 
bow.  "But  you  don't  answer  my  question.  For  whom 
is  the  sewing?" 

"For  the  forlornest  little  waif  you  ever  saw.    She — " 

"Spare  me  the  details!"  he  groaned.  "It's  enough 
to  know  I  guessed  right.  You  and  I  are  alike,  with  a 
profound  difference.  Every  one  likes  us.  But  there's 
a  reason  in  your  case,  while  I  am  a  mystery." 

"Whisha !  You'll  inoculate  me  with  your  own  van- 
ity !  But,"  she  added  gravely,  "mystery  or  no  mystery, 
you  have  succeeded  in  one  instance  where  I  and  every 
one  else  have  failed." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  you  have  failed.  You  can't  tell 
about  him.  There  are  times  when  I  doubt  myself. 
Though  I  really  have  succeeded — you  are  sure  of  that, 
aren't  you  ?  And  I've  been  good  for  him,  haven't  I  ?" 


GROWTH  IN  GRACE  95 

"Yes,  you  have  succeeded.  I  pray  that  you  may 
always  be  good  for  him,"  she  said  gravely. 

With  her  permission  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  they  sat 
silent  before  the  fire  for  some  time.  He  broke  the 
silence  abruptly. 

"I  saw  her  to-day." 

"Not  the  lady  of  your  dreams  ?    And  in  the  flesh  ?" 

"The  same !  Listen — and  I'll  unfold  a  tale  that  will 
rack  the  very  soul  of  you." 

He  paused  long  enough  to  throw  a  fresh  stick  on 
the  fire  and  then  resumed. 

"I  was  standing  in  the  depot,  waiting  for  a  fellow 
who  didn't  come — can  you  imagine  a  more  disgusting 
place  for  romance?  A  lady  dropped  her  kerchief. 
With  the  prompt  gallantry  that  is  one  of  my  charming 
traits,  I  picked  it  up  and  returned  it  to  her.  'Ah! 
thank  you.'  And  she  deigned  to  give  me  the  hundredth 
part  of  a  fraction  of  a  coldly  indifferent  glance,  as 
though  I  were  the  cement  beneath  her  feet.  Then — I 
turned  cold  and  stiff  with  fright  and  wonderment.  It 
was  She — as  I  had  dreamed  her.  I  stood,  staring  like 
a  yokel  while  she  passed  through  the  gate  to  her  train. 
I  made  a  dash  to  follow  her.  To  be  met  by  a  blue  arm 
with  brass  buttons  and  the  prosaic  demand,  'Show 
your  ticket,  please !'  'Ticket !'  I  said.  'I've  no  ticket.' 
'Can't  pass  through  then !'  'Man,'  I  said,  'I  must.  I'm 
the  president  of  this  railroad.  I'm  the  governor  of  the 
state.  I'm  the  president  of  these  glorious  United 
States.  It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  I  must!' 
'Can't  pass  without  a  ticket,'  was  all  the  concession  I 
received.  I  rushed  to  the  ticket  agent's  window. 
'Ticket!'  I  demanded.  'Where  to?'  he  said  leisurely, 
as  though  the  solar  system  hadn't  suddenly  stood  still. 


96  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

'Where  to?  /  don't  know,'  I  confided  to  him.  'First 
stop  pn  New  York  Limited,  I  suppose.'  He  handed  me 
a  few  inches  of  paper,  I  threw  down  a  bill  and,  with- 
out waiting  for  change,  rushed  out  to  the  gateman, 
waving  my  ticket  frantically.  'Now  will  you  let  me 
pass?'  I  cried.  'Nope,'  he  answered  tranquilly.  'Train 
just  pulling  out.'  It  was  true !  I  sat  down  on  a  truck 
and  spent  fifteen  minutes  inventing  new  ways  of  ex- 
pressing profound,  black  despair.  And  such,"  he  cried, 
striking  a  tragic  attitude,  "is  the  baleful  effect  of 
modern  invention  upon  romance.  Weep  with  me !" 

Kathleen  laughed  merrily.  "And  what  would  you 
have  done,  if  you  had  made  the  train?" 

"What  would  I  have  done,  you  ask?  What  could 
I  have  done  ?  I  would  have  thrown  myself  prostrate  at 
her  feet.  'My  dear/  I  would  have  said,  'you  are  over- 
long  in  coming.  I  have  waited  for  you,  lo !  these 
twenty-seven  years.  Accept  a  lifetime's  devotion,  heart 
of  my  heart.'  " 

"Yes?  And  what  excuse  would  you  have  made  to 
the  police  magistrate  next  morning?" 

"Bah !  You  would  make  an  efficient  railroad  official, 
Kathleen.  But  strange !"  His  voice  sank  to  a  serious 
whisper.  "She  was  just  as  I  had  dreamed  her." 

"You've  seen  her  picture  somewhere  and  adopted 
it  in  your  dreams,"  Kathleen  suggested,  eminently 
practical 

"Perhaps,"  he  assented,  and  went  on  in  the  same  un- 
wontedly  grave  tone.  "But  I  prefer  to  believe  in  my 
dreams.  She  was  wonderful.  If  only  you  could  have 
seen  her,  Kathleen!  Her  hair — that  glorious  brown 
with  the  red-gold  lights  in  it.  And  her  eyes!  They 
are  so  beautifully  gray,  so  cold  and  yet  so  sad,  with 


GROWTH  IN  GRACE  97 

that  something  that  makes  you  know  she  seeks  to  hide 
a  great  sorrow.  The  eyes  of  a  woman  who  will  not 
weep.  Her  mouth  is  like  her  eyes.  It  is  perfect  and 
yet  hard,  with  a  trace  of  bitterness.  Ah!"  he  cried 
passionately,  "it  wrung  my  heart.  She  has  seen  great 
trouble,  she  has  sounded  the  very  depths  of  life,  I 
know.  I  tell  you  I  longed,  I  ached,  to  take  her  in  my 
arms  and  say,  'My  poor  dear,  come  with  me  and  I  shall 
take  you  to  the  sunny  heights.'  She  needs  me,  Kath- 
leen, she  needs  me !"  He  turned  to  face  her. 

"Paul!"  Kathleen  exclaimed,  startled.  "You  let 
your  imagination  carry  you  away.  Come  back  to  earth. 
She  may  be  the  very  opposite  of  all  you  imagine  her." 

"No,  no,  Kathleen!  She's  not  imagination.  She's 
the  realest  thing  in  my  life.  I'm  a  horrible  sham  beside 
you  real,  big  people,  but  there  are  three  genuine  things 
in  my  life :  She,  my  friendship  for  you  and  my  honest 
liking  for  Bob." 

Kathleen  made  as  if  to  speak,  but  said  nothing. 

"Yes  ?"  he  urged  her  gently.    "Say  it." 

"Paul,"  she  said  impulsively,  "forgive  me.  I  have 
not  always  had  perfect  confidence  in  you,  in  your  depth 
I  mean — except  when  I  am  with  you — then  you  make 
me  believe,  in  spite  of  my  ungenerous  feeling  about 
you,  that  you  have  a  good,  true  side  to  you.  I  hate  to 
think  anything  ill  of  those  I  like.  Your  liking  for  Bob 
is  honest,  isn't  it  ?  Because  you're  the  only  person  he 
has  ever  given  his  friendship  to,  and,  I  think,  it's  a 
deeper  friendship  than  either  of  you  realize.  If  you 
were  to  prove  false  to  him,  he  would  be  hopelessly  em- 
bittered. Think  of  the  evil  he  might  do  if  he  were  to 
run  amuck.  You  and  he  are  men  of  different  tastes 
and  temperaments.  The  day  may  come  when  you 


98  THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

may  be  tempted  to  turn  away  from  him.  You  will 
be  a  true  friend  to  him  always,  won't  you  ?" 

"Of  course,  I  will,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  earnest- 
ness. 

"Ah!  no,  Paul!  Such  things  aren't  always  'of 
course.'  You're  both  in  politics — I  hate  politics,  it 
makes  men  so  hard  and  selfish.  You're  ambitious.  He 
has  many  enemies.  And  he  isn't  like  other  men.  He 
is  apt  to  be  too — too  exacting  sometimes." 

"But  I  promise,  Kathleen — " 

"I  don't  ask  that.  Promises  don't  mean  much,  do 
they?  And- — because  he  is  what  he  is — you  may  find 
it  very  hard  sometimes." 

"But  I  do  promise,  Kathleen,"  he  insisted  earnestly. 
"And  I  will  keep  my  promise,  if  only  for  your  sake,  no 
matter  what  the  sacrifice." 

"I  pray  it  may  never  mean  sacrifice."  But  she 
sighed. 

From  the  outside  came  the  sound  of  some  one  walk- 
ing swiftly  up  the  pavement  to  the  house. 

"There  he  comes  now,"  Paul  said.  "I  should  know 
that  step  in  a  thousand.  How  like  him  it  is!  He  is 
as  inexorable  as  fate,  that  man.  Let  us  keep  him 
right!" 

When  Bob  entered  the  library  Kathleen  and  Rem- 
ington were  chatting  brightly  of  her  latest  charity.  He 
listened  a  while  before  interrupting. 

"I  just  came  from  Stoughton.  He  wants  to  go  back 
to  the  legislature." 

"Yes  ?"    Remington  queried  eagerly. 

"I  told  him  I  had  no  objections." 

Remington's  face  fell.  "Ah!  I  had  rather  hoped 
to  go  myself." 


GROWTH  IN  GRACE  99 

"Well,  why  don't  you  try  for  it  ?" 

"But  you  told  Stoughton — " 

"That  I  had  no  objections  to  his  trying.  I  say  the 
same  to  you." 

"But  if  you  were  to  come  out  for  me,  it  would  be 
dead  sure." 

"No,"  Bob  said  firmly.  "If  it's  worth  having,  it's 
worth  fighting  for.  I'll  keep  out  and  keep  Haggiri  out. 
Then  you  and  Stoughton  can  fight  it  out  between  you." 

Remington  reflected  a  moment.  "All  right,"  he 
said  finally.  "I'll  try  it." 

"But  remember,"  Bob  added,  "you  spend  no  money 
for  booze  or  buying  votes.  Nothing  but  legitimate 
expenses." 

Remington  looked  furtively  at  Kathleen,  who  was 
diligently  sewing,  to  all  appearances  oblivious  to  the 
conversation.  I 

"Stoughton  will,  though." 

"He  hasn't  enough  to  do  much  harm.  How  much 
have  you  ?" 

"About  a  thousand." 

"Well,"  Bob  said  thoughtfully,  "I'll  pay  your  en- 
trance fee  to  the  primaries.  Your  thousand  will  cover 
legitimate  expenses.  And  I'll  see  you  get  a  square 
count." 

"Isn't  he  the  generous  soul!"  Remington  laughed 
to  Kathleen,  who  only  smiled  back.  "It's  a  tough 
proposition  you  put  me  up  against.  Stoughton  has  been 
over  the  field  already,  I  suppose.  But  I'll  try  it.  And 
I'll  win.  In  the  bright  lexicon  of  my  youth  there's 
no  such  word  as  fail." 

"Don't  underestimate  your  opponent.  It's  bad  strat- 
egy," Bob  advised  dryly. 


ioo         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Remington  went  into  the  fight  and  won,  to  the  de- 
light of  Haggin  and  his  henchmen,  who  fairly  loved 
the  "silk-stocking  kid."  It  is  significant  that  when  the 
returns  were  in,  primary  day,  Stoughton  was  the  first 
to  congratulate  the  winner,  and  with  downright  sin- 
cerity, too.  Bob  proceeded  to  reward  the  generous 
loser  by  giving  him  the  chief  clerkship  in  his  depart- 
ment at  the  city  hall,  a  plum  worth  twice  as  much 
pecuniarily  as  the  legislatorship. 

The  night  of  the  primaries,  Bob  received  the  count 
over  the  telephone,  Kathleen  eagerly  adding  up  the 
returns. 

"He  wins,"  she  said  when  the  last  precinct  had 
reported.  "Now  tell  me  why  you  wouldn't  help  him." 

On  Bob's  face  was  the  inscrutable,  wry  smile  the 
committeemen  had  remarked  the  night  of  Remington's 
defiance. 

"It  was  a  test — for  him  and  for  me,"  he  said  quietly. 
"If  he  had  lost,  I  would  have  cut  loose  from  him.  But 
now  I'm  pledged  to  carry  the  experiment  through  to 
the  end.  So  come  on,  Fate!  You  see,"  he  added 
grimly,  "I'm  falling  into  his  theatrical  ways  already." 

"Will  you  shake  hands  with  me?" 

"Why?" 

"You  win." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'm  not  sure.  I  once  told 
you  that  I  was  afraid  of  Bob  McAdoo.  Despite  your 
philosophy,  I  am — still  afraid,  Kathleen." 

When  Remington  went  to  the  capital  for  his  first 
session,  he  met  Mrs.  Dunmeade,  the  governor's  wife, 
and  they  became  friends  at  once.  She  already  knew 
much  of  Robert  McAdoo,  it  developed;  Remington 


GROWTH  IN  IGRACE  Hoi 

told  her  more.  As  a  result  the  boss  of  the  tough  Sixth 
Legislative  District  received  an  invitation  to  the  gov- 
ernor's reception,  an  early  event  in  each  session  of  the 
legislature.  He  carried  it  to  the  capital  with  him,  when 
he  went  thither,  and  showed  it  to  Remington. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  latter.  "What  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it?" 

"Go,"  Bob  answered  laconically. 

"Whurroo!"  Remington  shouted.  "I  thought  this 
was  out  of  your  line."  And  he  threw  himself  on  the 
bed  of  the  hotel  apartment  where  they  were,  and  gave 
vent  to  a  paroxysm  of  laughter. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?"  Bob  growled,  a  faint  twinkle, 
nevertheless,  in  his  eyes.  "Say,  Paul,  where's  the  best 
place  to  get  clothes?  New  York?" 

"Yes,"  Paul  gasped,  and  went  into  another  gale  of 
laughter. 

"Well,  pack  up.  You  and  I  are  going  to  New  York 
on  the  nine-thirty.  I  guess  this  state  can  get  along 
without  your  highly  valuable  services  for  a  few  days." 

Remington  laughed  harder  still. 

"Don't  mind  me,"  Bob  said  dryly.  "Laugh  away. 
I  begin  to  see  that  humor  is  a  good  thing  in  this  world. 
We  need  all  we  can  get  of  it — as  a  sugar-coating  for 
our  eternal  folly." 


CHAPTER  V 

AN  ALLIANCE  REJECTED 

BEHOLD  then  the  "tough"  boss  clad  cap-a-pie  as 
fashion  decrees  for  evening  "affairs."  The  tailor 
who  had  filled  the  "rush"  order  was  an  artist  in  his 
way,  and  must  have  taken  an  artist's  delight  in  fitting 
the  splendid  physique,  grown  less  burly  and  more 
supple  as  the  days  of  the  mill-hand's  heavy  labor  re- 
ceded. Bob's  new  attire  displayed  to  the  best  advan- 
tage his  tall  figure,  carried  with  the  unconscious  grace 
that  only  perfect  muscular  control  gives;  the  broad 
shoulders  and  the  lines  of  the  back  converging  sym- 
metrically to  the  narrow  waist.  It  may  have  been  the 
effect  of  the  wide  expanse  of  shirt  and  waistcoat :  what- 
ever the  reason,  he  seemed  at  once  younger  and  more 
impressive.  More  than  one  that  night,  seeing  him  for 
the  first  time  in  this  garb,  revised  their  preconceived 
opinion  of  the  man. 

When  he  appeared  in  Remington's  apartment,  the 
night  of  the  governor's  reception,  the  young  man  sur- 
veyed him  with  critical  approval. 

"You'll  do,"  he  nodded.     "Who  tied  that  necktie?" 

"That  was  beyond  me,"  Bob  confessed,  "but  a  little 
of  Uncle  Sam's  currency  secured  the  expert  services  of 
the  head  waiter." 

"How  do  you  feel?  A  little  uneasy?  Rather  as 
1 02 


AN  ALLIANCE  REJECTED       103 

though  you  missed  something  and  didn't  know  quite 
what  to  do  with  yourself?" 

"No.   Why  should  I?" 

"O,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it,  there's  no 
reason,"  Remington  laughed,  as  he  turned  to  complete 
his  own  toilet. 

McAdoo  and  Remington  crossed  the  governor's 
drawing-room  together,  Bob,  at  least,  coolly  uncon- 
scious of  the  flutter  of  whisperings  and  noddings  that 
followed  their  entrance.  The  governor  greeted  them 
with  the  fine  cordiality  which  was  one  of  the  reasons 
for  his  wide  personal  popularity.  He  and  McAdoo 
were  old  acquaintances;  old  enemies,  too,  having 
fought  in  opposing  camps  during  several  of  their 
party's  state  conventions. 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you  under  the  white  flag,  Mc- 
Adoo," the  governor  said  heartily.  "I  want  you  to 
meet  my  wife.  Katherine,  this  is  Mr.  McAdoo." 

Bob  did  not  miss  the  quick  glance  of  approval  she 
cast  over  his  correctly  attired  figure;  nor  did  he,  after 
that  glance,  regret  the  pains  he  had  taken  in  the  matter 
of  his  clothes.  "Surely  not  'Knockout  Bob  ?'  "  she 
queried  smilingly. 

"Guilty!" 

"We  must  change  the  sobriquet,"  she  said  brightly. 
"We  shall  leave  that  to  Mr.  Langton  here." 

She  introduced  Bob  to  a  short,  stout  young  man  who 
looked  out  on  the  world  through  thick-lensed  eye- 
glasses. Langton  was  a  famous  cartoonist  from  the 
governor's  home  city. 

"Mr.  Langton,  you  must  take  Mr.  McAdoo  in  charge 
for  a  while.  Then  I  think  we  ought  to  get  acquainted, 
Mr.  McAdoo." 


104         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Bob  turned  away  with  the  cartoonist.  "Well,  what 
do  you  think  of  it  ?"  Langton  inquired,  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand  indicating  the  motley  assemblage  of  verdant 
senators  and  promoted  ward-heelers,  who  stood  about 
in  awkward  groups,  vainly  trying  to  adjust  themselves 
to  the  propriety  of  the  occasion. 

"Sort  of  funny,  isn't  it?" 

"Isn't  it,  though?  I  never  miss  it.  I  come  for  new 
material,  and  never  fail  to  find  it.  I  enjoy  it,  too,  better 
than  anything  I've  had  since  I  sat  in  the  gallery  and 
saw  the  melodrama.  What  kind  of  show  did  you  pre- 
fer when  you  were  a  kid?" 

"Never  saw  a  play  in  my  life." 

"You  don't  mean  it?  Come  now,  that's  too  bad!" 
Langton  readjusted  his  glasses  and  surveyed  Bob  quiz- 
zically ;  although  he  did  not  explain  the  reason  for  his 
regret.  He  went  on : 

"Do  you  see  that  bewhiskered  old  hayseed  over 
there?  The  one  with  the  patently  rented  dress  suit, 
ready-made  tie,  no  cuffs  in  sight.  A  hundred  to  one, 
he  thinks  he's  penetrated  the  inmost  fastnesses  of 
swelldom  and  is  frightened  out  of  what  little  wit  the 
good  God  gave  him,  for  fear  his  flier  in  society  come 
to  the  ears  of  his  reuben  constituents.  'The  old  man 
of  the  mountains,'  the  boys  have  dubbed  him  already. 
He's  Jones,  of  Clarion.  They  must  have  been  hitting 
the  pipe  pretty  freely  up  there  to  send  an  old  fossil  like 
that.  He'll  be  a  mark  for  every  one  that  comes  along. 
Won't  even  have  to  buy  him. 

"And  look  at  that  big  ruffian,  with  the  diamond 
studs  and  Bowery  walk.  He's  so  rattled,  trying  to 
prove  he  isn't  rattled,  that  he  only  exaggerates  his 
natural  manners — of  the  speak-easy  variety  at  best.  It's 


AN  ALLIANCE  REJECTED      105 

a  crime,  /  say,  to  bring  his  sort  into  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Dunmeade.  He's  Blunker,  of  Wilksburg." 

"Yes.    I  know  him.    He  counts." 

"Sure.  That's  the  stuff  we  make  our  American 
statesmen  out  of.  He'll  go  home  with  his  pockets  filled 
with  a  lot  of  fresh  boodle.  Soon  he'll  be  boss  of  his 
city,  then  of  his  county,  then  of  his  corner  of  the 
state.  He'll  make  a  million  or  two.  By  that  time  his 
manners  will  be  toned  down  somewhat  and  he'll  go 
to  congress  to  make  laws  for  the  noble  republic.  He'll 
die  of  delirium  tremens  and  the  political  orators  will 
eulogize  the  deceased  statesman.  That  is,  if  he  doesn't 
land  in  the  penitentiary  first.  The  main  difference 
between  him  and  a  lot  of  our  big  men  is  that  he  ap- 
pears to  be  what  he  actually  is." 

So  Langton  rattled  pn  in  caustic  phrase,  with  the 
cartoonist's  eye  picking  out  the  eccentricity  in  the  per- 
sonality of  every  Solon  present  and  commenting  merci- 
lessly upon  it.  Bob  was  highly  amused.  He  shared 
Langton's  viewpoint;  he  knew  the  stuff  the  average 
state  legislator  is  made  of;  he  had  made  a  few  legisla- 
tors himself. 

"All  told,"  Langton  concluded,  "about  as  warm  a 
combination  of  rottenness  and  incompetency  as  we  have 
ever  had.  I  wonder  that  Dunmeade  consented  to  it.  I 
can  account  for  it  only  on  the  theory  that  Murchell  is 
trying  to  disgust  the  people,  to  pave  the  way  for  some 
of  the  governor's  pet  reforms,  unless  that  is  too 
Machiavellian  even  for  Murchell?" 

"You  know  Murchell  as  well  as  I  do,"  Bob  answered 
non-committally. 

"They  say  there  is  one  promising  member,  though, 
young  Remington.  He's  your  man,  I  believe.  They 


106         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

say  he  has  caught  Mrs.  Dunmeade's  eye.  That  augurs 
well  for  his  success — unless  you  interfere.  They  say 
he's  a  coming  man.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

Bob  calmly  ignored  the  question. 

"I  don't  envy  the  reporter  sent  to  interview  this 
chap,"  Langton  said  to  himself;  and  aloud,  "What  do 
you  think  of  Mrs.  Dunmeade  ?" 

"They  say,"  Bob  quoted  dryly,  "that  next  to  Mur- 
chell,  she  is  the  cleverest  politician  in  the  state." 

"Next  to  Murchell!  Man,  she  wraps  Murchell 
around  her  little  ringer,  just  as  she  does  the  governor. 
She  has  made  Dunmeade.  That  is,  she  has  toned  down 
his  impracticable  ideals  with  hard  common  sense. 
There's  quite  a  romance  in  their  lives,  I  have  always 
suspected,  if  one  could  only  unearth  it." 

"Why  should  one  wish  to  unearth  it?"  Bob  de- 
manded sharply. 

"As  a  newspaper  man,  I  assert  it  would  make  great 
copy.  As  a  gentleman,"  he  added  with  a  laugh,  "I 
agree  with  you  that  it  isn't  a  thing  for  the  public  to 
paw  over.  They're  too  fine  people  to  have  their  private 
lives  trespassed  upon  by  the  fool  public.  She  is  coming 
our  way  now." 

"Speaking  of  angels,"  he  addressed  her  with  a  low 
bow,  "I  was  just  saying,  Mrs.  Dunmeade,  that  you  are 
the  most  charming  woman  in  the  state." 

"Come  now,"  she  chided  him  laughingly,  "that  is  too 
gross  to  be  effective.  Go  over  to  that  corner  and  break 
up  Mr.  Remington's  monopoly  of  our  few  pretty  girls. 
I  w  ..  to  talk  to  Mr.  McAdoo  alone." 

"Look  out,  McAdoo,"  Langton  laughed.  "For 
if  Mrs.  Dunmeade  wants  anything  from  you,  you  might 
as  well  imitate  Davy  Crockett's  coon." 


AN  ALLIANCE  REJECTED       107 

With  another  bow  he  left  them  and  made  his  way 
across  the  room. 

"Suppose,"  suggested  Mrs.  Dunmeade,  "we  run 
away  from  this  to  the  library.  Unless,"  she  added  with 
a  smile,  "you  would  rather  join  the  monopolists?" 

"The  Lord  forbid!"  he  answered  with  such  serious 
emphasis  that  she  laughed  outright. 

She  led  the  way  into  a  large,  old-fashioned  room, 
furnished  in  black  oak.  Upon  the  walls  hung  the  por- 
traits of  the  governor's  predecessors  in  office.  In  the 
big,  open  fireplace  a  wood  fire  was  crackling  merrily. 

"You  may  smoke,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  volunteered. 
"I  think  you  will  find  cigars  in  that  box."  Bob  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  with  amused  expectancy.  It  was  for 
this  he  had  come  to  the  reception. 

"You  should  feel  complimented,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
said,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "Only  our  most  dis- 
tinguished guests  are  introduced  here.  Isn't  it  a 
beautiful  old  room  ?  I  love  it — it  is  so  fragrant  of  old 
memories.  Often  I  sit  before  the  fire,  dreaming 
and  wondering  what  tragedies — and  comedies,  too — 
must  have  been  played  here,  unknown  to  the  outside 
world.  John  calls  it  'the  graveyard  of  futile  ambitions/ 
So  many  men  have  come  here,  thinking  to  establish 
their  names,  only  to  find  themselves  helpless  puppets." 

"A  man's  a  fool  to  be  another's  puppet." 

"Ah !  That's  easy  to  say.  The  puppet  himself  will 
tell  you  that.  He  finds  it  out  when  it's  too  late.  Not 
too  late  for  the  heartache,  as  many  of  these  old  fel- 
lows, I  imagine,  could  testify."  She  waved  her  hand 
toward  the  portraits. 

Bob  made  no  answer,  and  they  sat  in  a  silence  broken 
only  by  the  murmuring  of  the  fire.  After  a  while,  he 


io8         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

became  aware  that  she  was  looking  at  him  intently. 
He  turned  toward  her  quickly. 

"You  caught  me,  didn't  you,"  she  laughed.  "I  was 
trying  to  unearth  the  real  McAdoo." 

"And  what  did  you  discover  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  can't  tell  yet,"  she  answered 
gravely,  then  she  added  abruptly,  "Mr.  McAdoo,  will 
you  tell  me  what  you  think  of  my  husband — honestly  ?" 

Bob  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes.  "I  used  to  think 
him  merely  a  shallow  demagogue.  That  was  before  I 
knew  him.  Now  I  believe  him  to  be  a  sincere  but  very 
foolish  man.  He  has  the  knack  of  getting  hold  of  the 
popular  heart.  He  could  make  almost  anything  of 
himself,  if — " 

"If?" 

"If  it  weren't  for  his  reform  notions.  He's  ahead  of 
his  time." 

"There  must  always  be  a  pioneer." 

"And  the  pioneer  is  generally  sacrificed  to  his  cause," 
Bob  said  sententiously.  "He  does  the  work  and  sees 
another  reap  the  glory." 

"Yet  Murchell,  the  shrewdest  politician  we  have  ever 
had,  has  joined  forces  with  my  husband." 

"That  merely  proves  my  statement.  Murchell  has 
been  considered  invincible.  Lately,  since  his  open 
alliance  with  your  husband,  his  organization  has  been 
falling  to  pieces.  He  is  likely  to  lose  his  hold  on  the 
railroad.  And  he  can't  make  up  in  popular  support 
what  he  loses  among  us  politicians." 

Mrs.  Dunmeade  raised  a  protesting  hand.  "Please, 
don't  say  'us  politicians.'  Because — one  must  speak 
right  out  to  you,  mustn't  one? — I  brought  you  in  here 
to  ask  you  to  join  forces  with  us." 


AN  ALLIANCE  REJECTED      109 

"In  my  city  they  would  call  that  a  joke,  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade." 

"It  isn't  a  joke  to  you,  is  it  ?" 

"It's  a  favorite  theory  of  your  husband's,  I  believe, 
that  reform  can  be  accomplished  only  through  the  peo- 
ple, never  the  professional  politician.  I'm  a  profes- 
sional politician." 

"You  know  the  political  conditions  of  this  state?" 

"Fairly  well,"  he  laughed. 

"And  you  are  content  that  this  state — yours — which 
should  be  the  greatest  in  the  union,  is  the  most  shame- 
fully corrupt?" 

"That's  sentiment.    It  happens  to  suit  my  methods." 

"Then  it  counts  for  nothing  with  you  that  your 
having  lived  should  result  only  in  adding  to  the  evil  in 
the  world?" 

"A  Steel  City  newspaper  once  remarked  editorially," 
he  answered  grimly,  "that  I  could  be  explained  only 
on  the  hypothesis  that  I  am  totally  lacking  in  moral 
sensibility."  « 

"You  are  willing  that  the  world  should  hold  that 
opinion?" 

"Really,  Mrs.  Dunmeade,  I  never  bother  myself 
about  what  the  world  thinks." 

She  studied  him  gravely.  "I  wonder,  is  that  true? 
Or  is  it  only  a  hurt  pride  that  refuses  to  prove  to  the 
world  its  mistake  ?" 

"If  that  were  so,  I  wouldn't  tell  you  of  it.  What  do 
you  think?" 

"I  don't  know.  If  it  be  true  that  you  frankly,  delib- 
erately choose  the  career  of  corruption — the  editorial 
was  wrong,  you  are  not  a  moral  idiot — what  a  monster, 
what  an  abnormality,  you  are !  I  can't  believe  that  of 


i  io         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

any  man.  You  haven't  answered  my  proposal  that  you 
join  with  us." 

"If  that  is  all  you  need  toi  set  you  right,"  he  said 
quietly,  "no." 

"Why  ?"  she  demanded  directly. 

"I'm  not  bound  to  answer  that.  Perhaps  because  I 
have,  as  you  put  it,  frankly,  deliberately  chosen  the 
career  of  corruption.  Perhaps  because  I  don't  believe 
in  reforms  or  reformers." 

"But  you  said  my  husband  is  sincere." 

"He  is.  Or  rather,  he  thinks  he  is,"  Bob  answered, 
all  his  brutal  cynicism  rinding  expression.  "He  really 
desires  reform.  But  not  for  the  reform's  sake.  He'll 
never  be  content  unless  it  is  worked  out  through  him." 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "how  you  misjudge  him!  I  tell 
you,  John  Dunmeade  would  gladly  smash  the  god  of 
Self  to  atoms  for  the  sake  of  his  great  purpose.  He 
has  already  made  the  bitterest  sacrifice  possible  for  a 
man  like  him.  He  has  gone  along  with  the  old  order, 
compromising  and  dealing,  accepting  little — infinites- 
imal ! — betterments,  to  make  a  beginning,  to  pave  the 
way  for  the  sweeping  reforms  he  thinks  necessary.  He 
has  sacrificed  his  own  approval,  his  own  conscience, 
that  other  men  might  build  on  his  foundation — and 
build  with  clean  consciences.  But  you,  of  course," 
she  said  resentfully,  "can  never  understand  that  ?" 

Bob  made  no  answer,  and  for  a  while  the  two  sat 
in  silence.  A  log  fell  in  the  fireplace,  sending  up  a 
shower  of  sparks.  Mrs.  Dunmeade  turned  suddenly 
toward  Bob. 

"You  wonder  why  I  talk  to  you,  a  total  stranger,  in 
this  fashion,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "It  is  because 
I  have  marked  you  out  as  one  who  can  be  a  tremendous 


AN  ALLIANCE  REJECTED      in 

help  to  us — to  him.  It — it  is  part  of  my  atonement. 
Even  when  he  was  a  boy  in  college,  he  was  an  enthu- 
siast, worshiping  high  ideals.  And  he  fought  hard  to 
make  politics  clean.  Always  in  the  brave,  open  fashion 
that  didn't  accomplish  much  perhaps,  but  at  least  left 
him  with  the  sense  that  he  had  been  true  to  his  ideals. 
Then  he  loved  me.  I  was  ambitious  for  him  to  rise. 
In  a  small,  careless  way  I  shared  your  philosophy  then, 
and  I  tempted  him  with  the  sophistry  of  expediency. 
Because  of  me  he  made  his  first  compromise.  It  didn't 
accomplish  much,  except  to  him  personally;  his  oppo- 
nents were  glad  enough  to  kick  him  up  out  of  the  way. 
And  he  never  went  back  to  his  old  methods.  Through 
my  influence  he  gave  over  the  brave,  soldierly  fighting 
natural  to  him  for  craft  and  compromise  and  indirec- 
tion. It  was  sensible  perhaps,  and  he  has  accomplished 
more  than  he  might  have  otherwise.  But  it  was  cruel 
to  him,  with  his  delicate  sense  of  honor. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  continued  quietly,  "I  find  it 
pleasant  to  be  called  the  female  politician,  to  play  a 
man's  part  in  these  deals  and  trickeries,  when  I  could 
be  caring  for  my  children  in  my  home?  That  is  my 
atonement.  I  made  John  Dunmeade  a  trickster.  I 
was  wrong  and  he  was  right.  All  I  can  do  to  make  up 
for  it  is  to  win  a  position  where  he  can  force  some  of 
his  dear  reforms.  I've  done  a  little.  I  made  Murchell 
his  friend.  Murchell  has  made  him  governor.  But 
even  with  Mr.  Murchell  we  are  so  few  and  weak, 
while  John's  enemies  are  so  many  and  so  strong.  All 
he  can  do  during  his  two  terms,  if  he  should  receive 
a  second,  is  to  build  up  an  organization  and  educate 
public  sentiment.  In  the  organization  you  could  help 
us  so  much,"  she  added,  looking  at  him  wistfully. 


ii2         THE  MAN  HIGHER  HP 

Bob  smoked  slowly  and  thoughtfully  for  a  few 
minutes.  Then  he  threw  his  cigar  into  the  fire  and 
rose. 

"I'm  keeping  you  too  long,"  he  said.  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade  rose,  too. 

"You're  not  to  be  moved,  I  see,  by  a  personal  ap- 
peal," she  said,  and  then  added  quickly,  "but  please 
understand  that  I  haven't  told  you  this  hoping  a  melo- 
dramatic appeal  could  win  you,  or  because  I  am  one  of 
those  women  who  must  tell  their  woes.  We  know  you. 
We  have  studied  you,  as  we  do  all  our  politicians.  I 
have  a  very  definite  purpose  in  telling  you  of  my  hus- 
band and  myself.  I  want  you  to  know  us  as  we  really 
are,  because  the  time  is  coming  when  you  will  be  forced 
to  join  with  us." 

"Forced?" 

"Yes ;  forced.  You  said  that  a  man  is  a  fool  to  be 
another's  puppet.  Yet  you  know  that  you  have  been 
the  servant  of  the  financial  ring  controlling  this  state. 
You  may  have  been  content  with  that  so  far,  while  you 
have  been  building  your  strength,  because  while  you 
have  been  playing  their  game,  they  have  been  playing 
yours.  But  unless  I  am  sadly  mistaken  in  you,  you  will 
soon  find  it  impossible  to  play  both  your  game  and 
theirs.  Your  wants  are  too  big.  The  very  Self,  which 
you  worship,  will  forbid  you  to  be  the  tool  of  other 
men.  Then  because  you  will  not  be  the  tool  of  the  in- 
terests, you  must  join  us." 

"Suppose  you're  right  about  me  and  my  wants, 
isn't  it  possible  that  they  may  still  play  my  game  with- 
out my  playing  theirs?" 

She  shook  her  head  emphatically.  "You  can't  be 
so  ignorant  as  not  to  know  that  the  interests  play  no 


AN  ALLIANCE  REJECTED      113 

game  but  their  own.  They  must  always  be  master; 
their  very  existence  depends  upon  that.  Either  you 
must  be  their  servant  or  their  enemy." 

"Then  you  think  that,  rather  than  play  their  game, 
I'll  choose  to  play  yours  ?" 

"Not  our  game,  but  the  game  of  the  cause.  It  will 
be  your  game  then — and  your  cause." 

"Ah !  I  see,"  he  said  dryly.  "Do  many  women  rea- 
son as  closely  as  you  do,  Mrs.  Dunmeade?" 

"Not  many  women  are,  like  me,  compelled  to,"  she 
replied  sadly.  Then  she  smiled.  "I  add — we  think 
better  of  you  than  you  do  of  yourself,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

In  that  session  of  the  legislature  there  was  but  one 
notable  feature,  a  corrupt  practices  bill,  regulating  the 
collection  and  disbursement  of  campaign  funds.  This 
measure  had  long  been  one  of  Dunmeade's  pet  schemes. 
A  few  independent  newspapers  came  out  boldly  for  the 
bill.  For  the  most  part,  however,  the  press  treated  it 
humorously.  The  state  at  large  received  it  apathetic- 
ally. Then  Murchell,  who  had  consented  to  the  bill 
reluctantly,  put  forth  his  hand  and  the  measure  was 
defeated.  The  man  in  the  governor's  mansion  added 
another  to  his  disappointments. 

At  the  close  of  the  debate  on  this  bill  Paul  Reming- 
ton made  his  first  important  speech  in  the  legislature, 
a  really  fine  effort.  The  newspapers  published  the 
speech  in  full,  with  many  flattering  comments  on  the 
young  orator's  ability.  Even  Bob' broke  over  his  cus- 
tom and  complimented  Paul. 

"It  was  a  good  speech,"  he  said,  when  Remington 
returned  to  the  city  the  Sunday  after. 

"But  it  did  no  good,"  Remington  answered  dis- 
couragedly.  "The  bill  was  lost" 


1 14         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Of  course.  Murchell  knows  his  business.  Did  you 
notice  any  wild  outburst  of  popular  approval?  No. 
The  people  are  asleep.  They  don't  know,  and  don't 
want  to  know,  how  campaigns  are  conducted.  Until 
the  people  are  with  them  strongly,  Murchell  and  Dun- 
meade can't  afford  an  act  like  this.  It  is  a  good  rule  in 
checkers,  when  the  other  fellow  has  more  than  you 
have,  never  to  exchange  unless  you  get  at  least  two  for 
one.  In  the  case  of  this  bill  the  other  fellow  can  afford 
an  even  exchange.  When  the  other  fellow  wakes  up 
to  what  Murchell  and  Dunmeade  are  after,  you'll  see 
some  pretty  playing,  by  the  way." 

"Then  why  did  Murchell  let  Dunmeade  push  the 
bill?" 

"Probably  to  show  Dunmeade  the  state  of  the  pop- 
ular temper.  Probably,  too,  as  a  bit  of  education.  The 
bill  caused  a  few  men  to  think,  to  open  their  eyes.  Your 
speech  helped  in  that." 

"You  really  think  it  received  attention?"  Remington 
asked  eagerly. 

"O,  yes,  it  was  a  personal  triumph,  if  that's  what  you 
want  to  know.  Run  in  to  Kathleen,  she'll  make  a  hero 
of  you.  I  have  some  papers  to  read." 

Bob  laughed  cynically.  Yet  his  eyes,  following  the 
handsome  figure  of  Remington  as  the  latter  went  out 
of  the  room,  softened  almost  to  tenderness.  He  did 
not  know  it  himself,  however. 


CHAPTER  VI 

POLITICS 

IF  the  events  of  a  rather  long  and  very  important 
period  of  Bob  McAdoo's  career  are  here  crowded 
into  one  chapter,  it  is  because  this  history  has  now 
reached  the  point  where  his  political  comings  and  go- 
ings are  matters  of  public  record.  Those  who  care  to 
follow  Bob's  career  in  detail  are  referred  to  the  Steel 
City's  newspapers'  files  of  those  years — where,  inci- 
dentally, may  be  found  an  interesting  and  characteris- 
tic study  of  municipal  politics.  One  is  impressed,  too, 
as  by  no  trite  sermonizing,  with  the  force  of  a  strong 
personality  concentrated  on  a  single  objective,  as  one 
sees  Bob's  name,  words  and  deeds  filling  the  press  of  a 
busy  community  nearing  the  million  mark  in  popula- 
tion. This  period  saw  Bob  become  boss  of  his  city. 

Bob's  affection  for  Remington  precipitated  the 
events  that  resulted  in  the  subjugation  of  the  city.  The 
term  "affection"  is  accurate.  Bob,  once  the  cold,  the 
loveless,  now  bestowed  on  the  younger  man  a  liking 
none  the  less  deep  and  intense  for  that  it  was  quiet  and 
undemonstrative.  This  liking  was  evidenced  by  the  in- 
fluence Bob  exercised  upon  Paul's  career  in  the  legisla- 
ture. Not  that  any  orders  were  given ;  Bob  merely,  by 
wise  counsel,  guided  his  friend's  footsteps  around  the 
pitfalls  set  for  the  inexperienced  legislator.  So  that,  al- 


n6         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

though  he  often  stood  almost  alone,  Remington  was 
found  fighting  boldly  on  the  honest  side  of  every  meas- 
ure. His  own  consummate  audacity  and  personal  pop- 
ularity secured  for  him  a  recognition  rarely  accorded  a 
first-term  man.  The  uncompromising  stand  was  pos- 
sible to  him,  as  to  few  others,  since  with  Bob's  indorse- 
ment his  reelection  was  deemed  assured  and  he  had  no 
need  to  placate  powerful  interests. 

Bob's  influence  may  not  seem  so  unaccountable,  when 
it  is  understood  that  it  was  dictated  only  by  shrewd, 
far-seeing  policy.  Bob  knew  that  he  who  enters  the 
political  race  must  run  as  lightly  as  possible,  and  that 
even  at  that  time  support  of  dishonest  measures  was 
apt  to  prove  a  handicap  to  the  swiftest  runner;  espe- 
cially if  the  goal  were,  as  in  Paul's  case,  advancement 
in  office. 

"Never  mind  what  they  say,  stick  it  out,"  he  ex- 
plained to  Remington  one  day,  after  the  latter  had  re- 
turned from  a  dinner  with  a  notorious  lobbyist.  "The 
railroad  and  the  steel  people,  ever  since  the  war,  have 
been  looting  this  state  through  us  politicians.  So  far 
the  people  have  stood  for  it,  but  there's  bound  to  be 
a  change.  The  people  swing  from  one  extreme  to  the 
other.  There  are  forces  at  work  in  the  state  now." 
He  had  Dunmeade  and  Murchell  in  mind.  "There'll 
be  an  earthquake  hereabouts  some  day  soon  and  when 
it's  over  there'll  be  a  good  many  political  corpses  scat- 
tered around.  I  don't  suppose  you're  anxious  to  ac- 
complish a  premature  demise.  And  besides,  in  a  tight 
place,  the  kicker  can  always  get  more  than  the  fellow 
who  goes  along." 

Remington  laughed.  "Then  you're  discarding  the 
meat-ax  for  the  rapier,  eh?" 


POLITICS  117 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  Bob  answered,  laughing. 

As  for  himself,  Bob  had  no  regrets  for  his  past  dis- 
reputable practices,  deeming  them  to  have  been  neces- 
sary to  his  financial  equipment.  Now,  however,  he 
decided  that  his  equipment  was  sufficient  to  his  needs, 
and  the  old  contracting  firm  was  dissolved.  Also  the 
Steel  City  was  treated  to  the  strange  spectacle  of  the 
"tough"  councilmen  consistently  voting  against  graft 
measures.  Bob  was  not  turning  reformer  by  any 
means,  on  the  contrary  his  plans  for  the  future  involved 
the  use  of  some  very  questionable  means;  but  he  was 
unburdening  himself  of  every  unnecessary  weight  that 
might  prove  a  hindrance  in  the  battle  he  foresaw.  And 
he  was  learning  to  make  concessions. 

The  policy  bore  its  fruit.  Paul  never  defeated  a  cor- 
rupt measure,  save  in  the  rare  cases  when  Murchell 
and  Dunmeade  threw  the  weight  of  their  influence  in 
his  favor,  but  as  the  people  gradually  awoke  from  their 
long  slumber  he  became  known  throughout  the  state 
as  a  brave,  uncompromising  champion  of  the  popular 
rights.  Bob's  name  ceased  to  be  the  subject  of  vituper- 
ative editorials  (save  in  MacPherson's  papers),  and 
the  "Knockout  Bob"  cartoons  appeared  less  frequently. 
Once,  when  through  Bob's  influence  an  especially  ob- 
noxious measure  was  defeated  in  the  city  councils,  the 
Leader  actually  printed  a  dignified,  commendatory  ed- 
itorial. Kathleen,  with  pride,  showed  it  to  him.  He 
laughed. 

"Don't  take  it  too  seriously,  Kathleen.  But  I'm 
afraid  I'm  becoming  almost  respectable." 

The  battle  that  Bob  had  foreseen  came  sooner  than 
he  expected ;  in  fact,  before  he  was  entirely  ready. 

In  the  second  year  of  Paul's  legislative  career  and 


u8         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

the  last  of  Dunmeade's  first  term,  opposition  suddenly 
developed  to  the  latter's  renomination.  An  obscure 
judge  from  one  of  the  western  counties  announced 
himself  as  a  candidate  for  the  Republican  gubernatorial 
nomination  upon  a  platform  the  principal  plank  of 
which  was,  "Down  with  the  Murchell  ring!"  At  first, 
the  announcement  was  treated  as  a  jest — by  all  save 
Murchell,  who  knew  the  judge  to  have  been  put  on  the 
bench  through  railroad  influence.  But  as  by  magic, 
the  judge's  candidacy  grew  into  formidable  strength. 
The  western  counties'  delegations,  one  after  the  other, 
declared  for  the  new  candidate.  The  judge,  a  man  of 
mediocre  ability,  who  affected  chin  whiskers  and  top- 
boots,  made  a  stumping  tour  through  the  rural  dis- 
tricts and  took  them  by  storm.  Then  the  majority  of 
the  Steel  City  delegation  declared  for  him,  and  Mur- 
chell called  upon  a  famous  lawyer  of  his  city  who  was 
also  attorney  for  the  railroad.  When  the  grim  old 
warrior  came  from  the  interview,  his  usually  impassive 
face  was  clouded  by  an  angry  frown. 

As  the  judge's  boom  gathered  strength,  more  pop- 
ular interest  was  awakened  in  the  coming  convention 
than  had  been  displayed  in  the  state  for  a  generation. 
The  impossible  seemed  about  to  happen.  Murchell, 
the  invincible,  the  political  wizard,  the  general  who  had 
never  been  beaten,  was  apparently  facing  his  Waterloo ! 
The  judge's  campaign  was  conducted  with  the  beating 
of  drums  and  the  blaring  of  trumpets;  the  Murchell- 
Dunmeade  camp  seemed  stricken  with  paralysis.  Six 
weeks  before  the  convention  Dunmeade  was,  so  it 
seemed  to  the  public,  hopelessly  beaten.  Only  a  few 
knowing  ones,  among  them  Bob  McAdoo,  refused  to 
believe  that  Murchell's  resources  were  exhausted. 


POLITICS  119 

Then  the  great  boss  executed  a  stroke  of  character- 
istic daring. 

A  month  before  the  convention,  like  a  bolt  out  of 
clear  sky,  came  the  governor's  call  for  a  special  session 
of  the  legislature  to  consider  the  passage  of  laws  regu- 
lating freight  rates  and  the  restriction  of  rebating,  and 
providing  for  a  committee  to  investigate  the  methods  of 
the  railroads.  The  knowing  ones  chuckled.  Murchell 
waited. 

The  legislature  convened,  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of 
railroad  lobbyists.  Murchell  was  present  in  person. 
At  the  end  of  a  week  the  bills  had  been  passed  by  the 
senate.  Two  days  more,  and  they  were  favorably  re- 
ported by  the  Railways  Committee  of  the  lower  house 
and  passed  the  first  reading.  Then  the  railroad  attor- 
ney called  upon  Murchell.  The  latter  refused  him  an 
interview.  Next  Murchell  received  a  telegraphic  in- 
vitation from  a  gentleman  in  Adelphia  to  run  over  to 
that  city  to  discuss  the  gubernatorial  situation.  The 
invitation  was  curtly  declined.  By  the  next  train  came 
the  gentleman  from  Adelphia  to  see  Murchell  in  person. 
He  went  into  the  interview  in  a  towering  rage ;  he  came 
from  it  outwardly  as  meek  as  the  proverbial  lamb — and 
with  hatred  rankling  in  his  heart. 

When  the  interview,  which  had  taken  place  in  the 
governor's  library,  was  over,  Murchell  sent  for  Dun- 
meade,  and  told  him  what  had  been  said.  As  the 
governor  listened,  lines  of  suffering  came  into  his  fine 
face. 

"It  is  the  only  thing,  of  course,"  he  said  in  a  dis- 
couraged tone.  "The  trick  worked.  But  it  is  shame- 
ful— shameful ! — to  barter  away  the  people's  rights  for 
a  petty  office.  Why  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  pass  the 


I2O 

bills,  push  the  investigation  through  and  accept  the 
defeat?" 

"Because,  John  Dunmeade,"  Murchell  said  quietly, 
"I  promised  your  wife  to  place  you  where  you  can 
reap  the  reward  of  your  sacrifice  and  we  haven't 
reached  that  point  yet.  Patience,  man!"  His  voice 
changed  to  a  gruff  tenderness,  and  he  put  his  hand  on 
the  other's  shoulder  affectionately.  "It  isn't  like  you  to 
lose  courage.  The  fight  is  just  opening.  Wait !" 

When  the  convention  met  at  the  capital,  the  lower 
house  was  still  debating  the  bills,  nor  were  the  final 
votes  taken  until  Dunmeade  was  nominated.  Then  the 
bills  were  quietly  amended  so  as  to  render  them  wholly 
ineffective.  Dunmeade  was  subsequently  reflected. 

In  a  full  session  of  the  lower  house,  whose  galleries 
were  packed  with  delegates  and  visitors  to  the  conven- 
tion who  had  stayed  over  for  the  proceedings,  Rem- 
ington made  the  last  speech  in  the  debate.  It  was  the 
greatest  speech  he  had  yet  made.  With  masterly  skill 
he  marshalled  his  facts — which,  by  the  way,  Bob  had 
given  him — evidencing  the  methods  of  the  railroad  and 
demonstrating  the  danger  to  the  public  in  the  monopoly 
that  had  been  established.  When  in  the  close  of  his 
speech,  at  the  height  of  a  magnificent  climax  dealing 
with  corporate  influence  in  politics,  he  dramatically 
charged  the  railway  officials  with  having  conspired  to 
defeat  Dunmeade,  the  Speaker  was  obliged  to  pound 
his  desk  for  several  minutes  before  the  enthusiastic  ap- 
plause died  down.  Long  extracts  of  the  speech  were 
printed  in  all  the  newspapers  of  the  state  and  found 
many  readers.  Among  these  was  the  gentleman  from 
Adelphia  who  had  visited  Murchell. 

When  Remington  made  his  dramatic  charge  against 


POLITICS  121 

the  railroad,  Bob,  who  sat  in  the  gallery,  frowned;  he 
had  not  known  it  was  to  be  in  the  speech.  However, 
though  much  disturbed  over  the  rash  words,  he  never 
rebuked  Paul.  Bob  foresaw  the  results  of  the  speech 
and  began  at  once  to  make  sundry  preparations. 

The  convention  was  in  May.  Early  in  the  following 
August,  MacPherson  went  to  Bob's  office  in  the  city 
hall. 

"About  this  young  Remington,"  MacPherson  ob- 
served after  the  preliminary  fencing.  "I  think  we'd 
better  not  let  him  go  back  to  the  legislature  this  fall." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes,  I  think  it  better.  Sackett's  sore  on  him.  He's 
been  beefing  it  right  along  with  his  reform  plays,  and 
that  speech  on  the  railroad  bills  was  the  last  straw. 
Sackett  told  me  Remington  must  go."  MacPherson's 
tone  implied  that  Sackett's  order  was  the  last  word  to 
be  said.  Sackett  was  the  president  of  the  railroad  and 
the  gentleman  who  had  called  upon  Murchell  at  the 
capital. 

"Well,  what  of  it?  Remington  happens  to  be  one  of 
the  people  Sackett  doesn't  own." 

"Come,"  MacPherson  laughed  unpleasantly,  "you? 
and  I  know  he  owns  us  all." 

Bob  looked  MacPherson  steadily  in  the  eyes.  "I 
have  no  doubt,"  he  said  harshly,  "that  Sackett  owns. 
you,  Mack,  body  and  soul.  But  he  doesn't  own  me,, 
and  I  happen  to  have  a  bigger  say  in  the  Sixth  than  he 
has.  I  say  that  Remington  goes  back  to  the  legisla- 
ture." 

The  boss  had  learned  to  know  Bob  well  enough  not 
to  argue  when  the  latter  had  determined  on  a  course 
of  action,  and  rose  from  his  chair. 


122         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"That's  final?" 

"Final." 

"Beware  of  the  hind  leg  of  the  mule,"  was  Mac- 
Pherson's  parting  shot. 

For  an  hour  Bob  smoked  thoughtfully,  then  he  wired 
to  Remington,  who  was  away  on  his  summer  vacation, 
the  following  message :  "Come  back  at  once.  You  go 
to  the  senate  this  fall." 

The  next  week  MacPherson  was  in  Adelphia  and 
reported  the  substance  of  his  conversation  with  Bob  to 
Sackett. 

"What  kind  of  man  is  this  McAdoo  ?"  he  asked.  "Is 
he  strong?" 

"He's  a  bulldog  sort,  hard  driver,  good  manager. 
He's  strong  in  the  Sixth,  but  not  outside." 

"I  see,"  Sackett  mused.  "He  can  be  made  valuable. 
Don't  break  with  him.  But  beat  Remington.  A  little 
curbing  will  be  good  for  McAdoo.  He  can  be  beaten, 
I  suppose?" 

"If  we  have  to,"  MacPherson  replied,  inwardly  curs- 
ing Sackett  for  forcing  the  quarrel  on  him. 

Accordingly  MacPherson  set  up  a  candidate  for  the 
nomination  against  Remington,  and  supplied  him  with 
unlimited  funds.  Bob  managed  this  campaign  himself. 
MacPherson's  candidate  was  overwhelmingly  beaten. 

Then  the  word  came  from  Sackett  to  MacPherson. 
"Get  rid  of  McAdoo.  He  is  dangerous." 

But  Bob's  was  no  Fabian  policy,  to  wait  to  be  at- 
tacked ;  realizing  that  thenceforth  he  must  fight  for  his 
political  life,  he  boldly  carried  the  war  into  the  enemy's 
territory.  Under  cover  of  the  fall  elections  he  quietly 
and  carefully  built  up  an  organization  throughout  the 
city;  so  quietly  indeed  that  MacPherson  received  no 


POLITICS  123 

inkling  of  his  purpose  until  too  late  to  hinder  its  ac- 
complishment. Remembering  with  sardonic  humor 
who  had  last  used  similar  tactics  in  that  city,  Bob  also 
bought  control  of  an  old-fashioned,  sedate  but  mori- 
bund newspaper,  placed  it  under  modern  management 
and  began  a  series  of  exposures  of  the  methods  and 
deeds  of  the  MacPherson  ring;  needless  to  say,  nothing 
in  these  disclosures  reflected  discredit  upon  Bob's  share 
in  the  old  regime.  Then  he  approached  Stuart,  a  weak 
and  pliable  man  who,  however,  had  considerable  fol- 
lowing among  the  "conservative"  element  of  the  city, 
and  offered  to  support  him  for  the  mayoralty  nomina- 
tion. 

The  day  on  which  the  Bugle  announced  Stuart's 
candidacy,  Bob  received  a  curt  note  from  the  mayor 
requesting  his  resignation  from  the  directorate  of  pub- 
lic safety.  Bob  promptly  complied.  His  successor's 
first  official  act  was  to  summon  Bob's  appointees  to  "the 
carpet"  and  in  plain  terms  inform  them  that  they  must 
work  for  the  success  of  MacPherson's  candidate  or  lose 
their  positions.  A  small  number  timidly  agreed  to  the 
boss'  demands,  but  the  majority  hesitated.  A  few 
boldly  declared  for  Stuart,  accepted  their  discharges, 
and  sent  one  of  their  number  to  inform  Bob  of  their 
action. 

He  listened  to  the  story  without  making  comment. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  he  demanded  abruptly,  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  account. 

"Well,"  said  the  spokesman  awkwardly,  "you  got  us 
the  jobs,  you've  always  been  square  with  us,  and  we 
ain't  going  back  on  you  now.  Besides,  we  back  you 
to  win  every  time." 

"All  right,"  Bob  answered.    "Your  pay  goes  on  the 


124         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

same  until  the  election.  After  that  I'll  take  care  of  you, 
whether  we  win  or  not." 

When  the  interview  was  noised  abroad,  the  doubtful 
employees  at  once  lined  up  for  Stuart.  Bob  made  them 
the  same  promise. 

"Bob  McAdoo  ain't  just  my  style  of  man,"  said  one. 
"But  his  word's  good  with  me,  you  bet !"  This  saying 
expressed  the  general  opinion  very  closely. 

Frightened  by  the  wholesale  exodus  from  the  Mac- 
Pherson  ranks,  those  who  had  yielded  to  the  fear  of 
losing  their  positions,  now,  after  consultation  among 
themselves,  sent  word  to  Bob  that  they  would  come  out 
for  Stuart  for  the  same  consideration  the  former  had 
offered  to  the  others. 

"No,"  Bob  turned  upon  their  messenger  savagely. 
"You  agreed  to  throw  me  over  to  save  your  jobs.  Now 
you've  got  to  stick  to  your  bargain.  I'll  have  no  quitters 
with  me."  This  was  not  good  politics,  perhaps,  but  it 
was  Bob. 

The  campaign  will  be  remembered  as  long  as  the 
Steel  City  stands.  Bob  was  viciously  cartooned  and 
made  the  subject  of  rancorous  editorial  attacks.  These 
attacks  were  met  by  loud  blasts  from  the  Bugle  and 
countercharges  from  a  band  of  spellbinders  who,  led 
by  Paul  Remington,  stumped  the  city  from  end  to  end. 
Every  trick  known  to  politicians  was  practised.  Money 
flowed  like  water.  Election  boards  were  freely  bought 
on  both  sides.  On  the  day  of  the  primaries  hordes  of 
"repeaters"  went  from  polling  place  to  polling  place, 
wThere  their  respective  friends  were  in  control,  and 
voted  for  their  candidates  again  and  again.  In  Irish- 
town,  thanks  to  padded  registry  lists,  many  an  ancient 
citizen  who  had  long  since  passed  to  his  reward  was 


POLITICS  125 

strangely  resurrected,  brought  to  the  polls  to  cast  a 
vote  for  Stuart,  and  promptly  marched  back  to  the 
graveyard. 

The  Sixth  stood  by  Bob  loyally,  all  the  tough 
wards  gave  enormous  majorities  for  his  candidate. 
But,  so  far  as  the  immediate  contest  was  concerned,  in 
vain.  When  the  returns  were  counted,  Stuart  was  de- 
feated by  less  than  two  thousand  majority.  "The  peo- 
ple are  victorious !"  screamed  MacPherson's  newspaper. 
'Bob  had  met  his  first  repulse. 

When  Bob  heard  the  result,  he  gave  no  sign  of  dis- 
appointment. The  only  change  in  his  demeanor  was  a 
tightening  of  the  lines  about  his  mouth. 

"I  expected  it.  It  came  too  soon/'  he  said  calmly  to 
Remington,  and  added  with  a  sudden  snap  of  his  teeth, 
"But  it's  MacPherson's  last  win." 

Those  about  him  now  saw  a  change  come  over  him, 
as  he  plunged  into  a  campaign  to  turn  his  defeat  into 
victory.  This  change  was  marked  chiefly  by  a  bright- 
ening of  the  eyes  and  a  genuinely  mirthful  ring  in  his 
rare  laugh.  The  old  habit  of  taciturnity  was  often 
thrown  off.  The  heat  of  battle  was  bringing  to  him  the 
spring  of  youth  which  he  had  lately  lost.  And  Bob 
was  now  entered  upon  a  fight  against  forces  beside 
which  MacPherson  and  his  ring  were  as  pygmies.  The 
heart  of  Airs.  Dunmeade  was  made  glad,  as  she  saw 
him  compelled  by  the  exigencies  of  his  position  into  di- 
rect antagonism  to  the  interests  that  were  almost 
openly  arrayed  against  her  husband. 

The  city  was  now  awakened  from  the  lethargy  in 
which  it  had  lain  for  a  generation.  The  continued 
exposures  in  the  Bugle,  which  the  opposition  press 
tried  in  vain  to  counteract  by  charges  that  Bob  himself 


126 

had  been  an  accomplice  in  the  same  misdeeds,  and  the 
knowledge  gained  during  the  recent  campaign,  had 
aroused  the  citizens  to  a  realization  of  the  fact  that 
while  they  had  slept  they  had  been  shamefully  out- 
raged. They  were  disgusted  with  the  methods  used 
by  MacPherson  in  the  campaign  just  closed — it  is 
true,  Bob  had  practised  the  same  methods;  but  it  is 
a  characteristic  of  the  American  people  to  scrutinize 
the  tactics  of  the  victor  more  closely  than  those  of  the 
defeated — and  they  demanded  a  change.  Bob  had  no 
mind  to  wait  three  years  until  the  next  mayoralty  con- 
test. Moreover,  he  must  take  advantage  of  the  popular 
awakening  which,  with  the  cynical  unbelief  shared  by 
many  others,  he  deemed  to  be  only  ephemeral.  So  he 
set  about  the  capture  of  the  county  offices,  among  them 
that  of  district  attorney,  the  most  important  in  our 
scheme  of  government,  the  possession  of  which  is  es- 
sential to  the  successful  fruition  of  our  corruptionists' 
schemes. 

To  strike  for  this  office  was  to  attack  the  chief 
stronghold  of  the  interests.  Bob  could  have  had  at 
least  a  promise  of  their  support,  had  he  been  willing  to 
accept  their  conditions.  Before  his  intention  became 
public,  he  was  visited  by  an  avowed  agent  of  the  com- 
bined steel  concerns  of  the  city,  who  offered  to  con- 
tribute largely  to  his  campaign  fund,  if  he  would  allow 
•them  to  name  his  candidate.  Bob,  who  knew  that  a 
similar  arrangement  had  been  made  with  MacPherson 
and  that,  once  assured  that  the  winning  candidate  in 
any  case  would  be  their  servant,  they  would  surely 
throw  their  weight  against  him,  refused.  A  helpless 
district  attorney  played  no  part  in  his  plans. 

The  McAdoo  organization  was  extended  out  into  the 


^ 

^r 


~&t 

-M-UONt 


POLITICS  127 

boroughs  and  country  districts  of  the  county.  In  this 
work  Remington,  with  His  native  diplomacy  and  win- 
ning manners,  was  an  invaluable  aid.  The  choice  of  a 
candidate  for  the  district  attorneyship  was  the  most 
difficult  part  of  the  program.  Bob  at  length  found  one 
suitable  to  his  purpose  in  Martin,  a  brilliant  and  am- 
bitious young  lawyer.  When  Bob  first  broached  the 
subject  to  him,  Martin  demurred. 

"If  I  took  it,  I'd  want  to  make  a  record,"  he  said. 
"There's  a  certain  line  of  prosecutions,  for  political 
offenses,  that  I'd  like  to  push.  And  I  don't  care  to  be 
used  as  a  club  to  force  MacPherson  into  a  deal  and  then 
be  pulled  off  from  the  prosecutions." 

"That's  all  right,"  Bob  explained.  "I  want  you  to 
make  a  record.  Of  course,  I  shouldn't  want  you  to 
hurt  any  of  our  people,  but  so  long  as  you  stand  by  us, 
you  may  go  after  MacPherson  and  his  crowd  as  hard 
as  you  please.  There'll  be  no  deal  in  that  quarter. vff 

"That  seems  fair  enough.  But,"  Martin  added  dubi- 
ously, "have  you  the  indorsement  of  the  railroad  and 
steel  people?  They've  always  made  it  a  point  to  own 
the  office." 

"No,"  Bob  said  strongly,  "I  haven't  their  indorse- 
ment, and  won't  have  it.  But  you  and  Remington 
can  tell  the  people  why  that  crowd  needs  the  office. 
We'll  wrin  without  their  help.  And  when  you  are 
elected  you  can  go  after  them,  '-oo,  and  I'll  stand  by 
you." 

"I  don't  know  what  your  game  is,"  Martin  an- 
swered. "But,  by  George !  I  like  your  style  of  fighting, 
and  if  you  give  me  this  opportunity,  I'll  be  square  with 
you !'' 

MacPherson's  candidate  had  no  chance  to  win;  the 


128         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

popular  clamor  for  a  change  was  too  strong.  And  it 
was  a  "young  man's  fight."  The  trio,  Bob  the  young 
leader,  Martin  the  young  candidate,  and  Remington  the 
young  orator,  was  a  magnet  to  draw  the  enthusiastic 
support  of  the  young  men.  It  was  the  day  of  the 
young  man.  That  autumn  a  man  barely  forty  years  old 
made  his  second  unsuccessful  run  for  the  presidency. 
Another  young  man  was  elected  vice-president,  within 
a  year  by  a  stroke  of  fate  to  become  president. 

During  that  campaign  the  fame  of  Bob's  struggle 
spread  to  the  borders  of  his  state,  and  out  into  the  na- 
tion. Men,  absorbed  though  they  were  in  the  issues  of 
a  national  campaign,  found  time  to  turn  their  eyes 
toward  the  Steel  City  and  ask  themselves  the  ques- 
tions :  Who  and  what  is  this  grim,  lonely  figure  fight- 
ing for  the  mastery  of  his  city,  single-handed  against 
an  alliance  whose  tremendous  power  is  beginning 
vaguely  to  be  realized?  And  what  does  his  success 
portend?  The  only  man  who  could  have  answered 
these  questions  gave  no  thought  to  them.  Bob  was  too 
busy  for  introspection. 

The  nomination  won,  Martin  safely  elected,  and 
the  county  patronage  so  disposed  as  to  rivet  the  weak 
points  in  his  machine — for  so  it  must  be  called — Bob 
was  in  the  position  of  a  man  who  owns  all  the  water 
around  a  coveted  island  but  not  the  island  itself.  The 
county  government  was  his,  but  the  city  administration, 
the  goal  of  his  effort,  was  still  in  MacPherson's  hands, 
and  would  be,  at  least  until  the  next  mayoralty  election, 
more  than  two  years  distant.  Bob  made  tentative  ef- 
forts to  bribe  Mayor  Henry  to  a  desertion  of  his  boss ; 
but  Henry  was  loyal.  Many  a  long  hour  Bob  spent 
over  the  problem  how  to  gain  control  of  the  city  and 


POLITICS  129 

complete  his  boss-ship.  It  was  Remington  who  sug- 
gested the  method. 

Martin,  as  soon  as  inducted  into  office,  began  a  suc- 
cessful series  of  prosecutions  against  election  frauds 
and  corruption  in  the  city  councils — Bob's  supporters 
were,  according  to  agreement,  immune — that  kept  the 
pot  of  public  resentment  boiling  against  MacPherson's 
ring.  Bob  gave  his  hearty  assistance  to  this  work;  it 
was  a  preliminary  to  the  project  he  had  in  view.  When 
he  felt  that  the  last  remnant  of  popular  support  left  to 
his  enemy  was  destroyed,  he  ventured  upon  a  bold 
move. 

He  secured  a  conference  with  Dunmeade  and  Mur- 
chell  and  to  them  unfolded  his  scheme. 

"I  want,"  he  said,  "an  act  of  the  legislature  changing 
the  charters  of  all  cities  of  the  second  class,  giving  the 
mayor  the  power  of  appointment  of  all  department 
heads  without  interference  from  councils;  with  a  pro- 
vision empowering  the  governor  to  unseat  the  present 
mayors  at  once  and  appoint  substitutes.  And  I  want 
you  to  let  me  name  the  man  for  my  city." 

"That  is  a  dangerous  game,  young  man,"  Murchell 
said.  "You  have  the  people  with  you  now.  A  move 
like  that  is  apt  to  drive  them  away." 

"Give  me  the  city  administration  and  pay-roll  and 
I'll  risk  it,"  Bob  replied  confidently. 

After  a  long  discussion  of  details,  Murchell  said : 

"Well,  if  we  do  that  for  you— what?" 

Dunmeade  extended  his  hand  protestingly.  "No. 
We'll  do  it.  Let  there  be  no  bargains  for  once." 

At  the  governor's  invitation  Bob  remained  for  din- 
ner at  the  executive  mansion.  When  he  had  left,  Mur- 
chell said  thoughtfully,  "The  immediate  fate  of  this 


1 30         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

state  is  in  that  man's  hands.  If  he  should  make  a  deal 
with  the  railroad  steel  crowd,  and  he'll  have  every 
temptation  now,  your  work,  John,  will  be  infinitely 
harder  than  with  MacPherson  in  the  saddle  down 
there.  But  if  he  should  keep  up  his  present  fight,  I 
don't  believe  they  can  beat  us.  Your  refusal  of  the 
bargain  was  very  generous,  but —  His  voice  as  he 
thanked  us  was  absolutely  colorless.  It  might  have 
meant  anything." 

"Perhaps,"  the  governor  assented,  a  little  wearily. 
"But  he  has  the  reputation  of  never  deserting  those  who 
help  him." 

"Yes,  but  he  never  played  for  so  big  stakes  before." 

Mrs.  Dunmeade  broke  in  eagerly.  "John  is  right. 
He  will  never  deal  with  them,  and  he  will  never  betray 
your  confidence.  And  not  merely  from  gratitude.  He 
has  changed — grown  wonderfully — these  last  four 
years.  I  felt  it  the  instant  I  saw  him  to-day.  I  hope 
and  believe  he  will  be  a  great  and  good  man." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  Murchell  said  quietly.  "He 
will  never  go  over  to  them.  Because  they  can  have  no 
use  long  for  a  man  of  his  caliber  and  he's  keen  enough 
to  know  it.  And  I  have  faith  in  Katherine's  intuitions, 
John,"  he  added  smilingly. 

At  the  next  session  of  the  legislature,  Bob's  bill  was 
passed.  Dunmeade  "ripped"  Mayor  Henry  out  of 
office,  and  appointed  Stuart  in  his  place.  That  night 
Irishtown  held  high  revel. 

How  would  Bob  use  his  power?  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
had  expressed  one  opinion.  Another  was  set  forth  in 
a  cartoon  appearing  in  MacPherson's  newspaper  the 
morning  after  Stuart's  appointment.  Bob  was  repre- 


POLITICS  131 

sented  as  a  hideous  giant ;  in  his  outstretched  hand  was 
a  cruel-looking  lash.  Before  him  cowered  a  trembling, 
shackled  figure,  labeled  "The  People."  Beneath  was 
the  caption,  "Woe  to  the  conquered !" 


CHAPTER  VII 
EAVESDROPPING;  LIGHT  TO  THE  BLIND 

BOSS  McAdoo  threw  down  the  papers  he  had  been 
comparing  and,  leaning  back,  lighted  a  cigar.   He 
puffed  contentedly  for  a  few  minutes,  as  he  thought 
over  the  events  of  the  past  few  days. 

It  was  an  evening  early  in  January.  A  blizzard  had 
fallen  upon  the  city.  Outside,  the  wind  bellowed 
around  corners  and  under  eaves.  A  foot  of  light, 
feathery  snow  had  fallen,  only  to  be  caught  up  and 
tossed  about  in  dizzying  swirls  by  the  gale.  Even  Bob, 
not  overfond  of  the  creature  comforts,  relished  the 
warmth  and  cheery  flickering  of  the  flames  in  his  grate. 

From  the  library  below  came  voices.  They  were 
talking  about  him,  and  he  listened  frankly.  In  this  case 
he  knew  the  eavesdropper  would  hear  nothing  unkind. 

"He  is  the  last  man  most  people  would  choose  as  a 
subject  of  romance,"  it  was  Paul's  voice  speaking. 
"And  yet  where  will  you  find  a  more  romantic  life? 
He  started  with  nothing  but  a  stout  fist  and  a  sturdy 
heart.  He  is  thirty-six  years  old,  rich  as  he  wants  to 
be,  better  educated  than  most  men,  almost  a  national 
figure,  political  leader  of  three  quarters  of  a  million 
people.  Tenement  brat,  newsboy,  mill-hand,  ward 
heeler — Bob  McAdoo,  by  grace  of  God,  king!" 

132 


LIGHT  TO  THE  BLIND          133 

"Yes,"  Kathleen  assented  gravely.  "By  the  grace 
of  God!" 

"Boss  of  what  I  believe  the  greatest  city  in  the 
world,"  Paul  continued  musingly.  "What  a  role  to 
play !  I'd  give  half  my  life  if  it  were  mine !" 

The  man  up-stairs  shook  his  head  and  smiled,  a  trifle 
satirically.  "You'll  never  play  it,"  he  thought,  "for 
you  miss  the  essence  of  the  game.  I  fear,  Paul,  that 
after  all  you  aren't  the  true  striver.  It's  not  the  mas- 
tery, but  the  attainment  of  it,  that  is  worth  while." 

He  gave  over  his  eavesdropping  and  fell  to  thinking 
of  himself  and  of  what  he  had  wrought. 

Bob  was  surely  growing.  Once  he  had  thought 
mastery — power — the  only  thing  in  life  worth  having. 
Now  that  he  had  it,  he  valued  it  only  as  evidence  of 
his  self -proving.  If  he  allowed  himself  to  exult,  who 
shall  wonder?  For  years  he  had  fought,  single- 
handed  against  a  force  that  for  a  generation  had  held 
a  great  state  abject.  And  he  had  conquered.  He  had 
matched  courage  against  courage,  patience  against 
patience,  knowledge  against  knowledge,  chicanery 
against  chicanery,  and  at  every  point  he  had  proved  the 
stronger.  The  fight  was  far  from  over.  But  he  had  no 
fears  for  the  outcome.  He  had  proved  himself.  What 
he  had  won  he  could  keep.  That  very  day  he  had  out- 
witted his  opponents,  turning  against  them  once  more 
their  favorite  weapon  of  trickery  and  double-dealing. 

Exult,  Bob  McAdoo!  For  it  is  the  last  time  you 
shall  revel  in  the  brutal,  primitive  worship  of  the  self- 
god.  Even  in  the  splendid  sweep  of  your  exultation 
there  comes  a  sudden  halting. 

"By  the  grace  of  God,  king !  By  the  grace  of  God !" 

A  casual,  magniloquent  phrase  has  opened  your  eyes 


i34         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

to  the  great  fact  of  your  life.  You  thought  to  be 
supreme  in  that  life.  You  now  find  that  to  be  an  empty 
dream.  A  great  force,  using  now  this  agency,  now 
that,  has  driven  you  to  where  you  stand.  Your  own 
strength  and  will  are  but  one  such  agency.  Jim 
Thompson,  gentleman  of  misfortune,  whose  cruelty 
drove  you  out  of  the  stunting  tenement  was  another. 
Big-hearted  Patrick,  carrying  you  into  a  healthful  en- 
vironment, was  still  another.  Then  came  Squire 
Mehaffey  and  his  weak  fears,  and  the  brutal  Haggin. 
Then  the  slender,  fearless  girl  in  the  mills — against 
whose  memory  you  still  cherish  that  strange,  personal 
hatred — asserting  her  illogical  privilege.  Then  Mac- 
Pherson  and  his  antagonism.  Then  Dunmeade  with  his 
noble  purpose  and  subjection  of  self.  Last  of  all,  Paul 
Remington,  whom  a  strange,  unaccountable  impulse 
drove  you  to  take  into  your  life.  For  whom  a  great 
love,  as  for  one  of  your  possessions,  in  spite  of  yourself 
has  grown  up  in  your  heart.  To  fight  his  fight  you,  who 
set  out  to  live  for  yourself,  are  now  irrevocably  arrayed 
against  the  enemy  of  the  multitude. 

"By  the  grace  of  God,  king !  Then  no  king  at  all !" 
No!     Say  rather,  by  the  grace  of  God,  in  spite  of 
yourself,  servant  of  a  great  people  in  the  hour  of  their 
need.  So  the  Force  puts  us  all  into  its  mold  compelling 
us  to  our  various  ends  and  its  infinite  purpose. 

"To-day,"  said  Paul,  "a  man  took  me  up  into  a  high 
place  and  showed  unto  me  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 
earth  and  offered  to  give  them  to  me." 

"And  what  were  those  realms?"  Kathleen  laughed 
idly.  "And  would  the  crown  fit  ?" 

"The  kingdoms  were  very  cleverly  suggested  con- 


LIGHT  TO  THE  BLIND          135 

gressional,  gubernatorial,  senatorial  possibilities,  even 
cabinet  portfolios,  rich,  juicy  plums  transferred  from 
the  public  pie  into  my  watering  mouth.  In  short,  all 
those  things  that  are  most  desirable  to  an  ambitious  but, 
poverty-stricken  state  senator." 

"And  for  what?" 

"The  consideration  was  that  I  should  bow  down  and 
worship  and  serve  the  tempter.  To  make  these  honors 
mine,  all  I  must  do  is  to  give  over  my  independence, 
sell  my  soul  into  perpetual  bondage  and  betray  Bob  into 
the  hands  of  his  enemies." 

"Betray  Bob— how?" 

"O,  he  didn't  put  it  with  such  brutal  frankness.  I 
was  merely  to  induce  Bob  to  make  an  alliance  with  the 
men  he  is  now  fighting.  The  offer  was  an  insult  to  my 
intelligence!  As  though  I  didn't  know  that  the  pro- 
posed alliance  was  only  a  pretext  to  get  him  into  their 
power !  They  don't  want  an  alliance  with  him.  Their 
ally  must  be  their  servant.  Fancy  Bob  any  one's  serv- 
ant!" 

"And  the  temptation — did  it  tempt?" 

He  hung  his  head.  The  man  up-stairs  strained  his 
ears  to  catch  the  answer. 

"Yes,"  Paul  said  bitterly.  "O,  he  was  very  crafty — 
was  Sanger;  he  had  evidently  studied  my  case.  Very 
slyly  he  hinted  that  my  reward  hasn't  been  in  propor- 
tion to  my  services,  that  I'm  fit  for  higher  things  than 
a  mere  state  senatorship.  And  it's  true."  He  flung  his 
head  back  sharply.  "It's  true.  The  crown  would  fit. 
I  know  my  worth.  And  I'm  ambitious.  At  times,  when 
I  see  Bob  outstripping  me  so  rapidly,  my  ambition  liter- 
ally hurts  me." 

"Then  why  did  you  say,  No?" 


136         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Because,"  he  answered  simply,  "as  long  as  I  have 
his  friendship,  I  must  be  true  to  him.  For  I  am  the 
victim  of  my  own  plot.  I  set  out  to  like  him  as  a  mat- 
ter of  policy,  to  climb  in  his  trail.  And  now — "  He 
hesitated. 

"And  now?" 

"I  love  him  as  my  own  brother." 

The  man  up-stairs  felt  his  heart  give  a  quick,  sharp 
throb. 

One  by  one  Bob's  crude,  narrow  schemes  of  existence 
were  being  shattered.  He  had  thought  to  be  supreme 
in  his  life;  he  found  himself  to  be  but  the  creature  of 
circumstance,  which  is  but  another  name  for  the  Force. 
He  had  schemed  an  existence  in  which  love  should 
never  fetter  mind  or  heart;  at  an  acknowledgment  of 
affection  from  one  whom  he  had  called  friend,  hardly 
knowing  the  meaning  of  friendship,  a  strange,  unac- 
customed joy  flooded  his  heart,  revealing  the  hold  that 
friendship  had  taken  on  him. 

And,  strangely,  there  was  no  resentment.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  Robert  McAdoo  knew  the  meaning 
of  genuine  happiness  and  content.  All  his  store  of 
affection,  so  long  repressed,  flooded  out  in  a  passionate, 
yearning  love  for  the  handsome,  magnetic  Paul.  He 
gloried  in  his  power  to  win  Paul's  regard  as  he  had 
never  gloated  over  the  strength  that  had  successfully 
defied  the  mightiest  political  forces  of  the  state.  .  .  . 
A  new  purpose  came  to  him.  His  power  took  on  a  new 
and  higher  value.  With  it  he  would  royally  endow  this 
friend,  defending  Paul  from  the  weakness  of  his  own 
temperament,  and  make  him  great  and  honored  in  the 
land. 

But  the  Force  was  not  yet  through  with  Bob.    An- 


LIGHT  TO  THE  BLIND          137 

other  turn  of  the  screw,  and  the  mold  pressed  more 
closely  around  him. 

"It  has  been  a  day  of  fate,"  Paul  said.  "For  to-day 
I  saw  her  once  more." 

"Surely  not  the  dream  lady?  I  supposed  you  had 
forgotten  her." 

"The  same.  I  was  walking  along  the  street,  there 
was  a  carriage  blockade.  I  had  the  feeling  one  has 
when  another's  eyes  are  fastened  on  one.  I  looked 
into  the  carriage  beside  me.  It  was  She.  She  turned 
away  quickly,  but  not  before  I  had  looked  full  into  her 
eyes  for  a  moment.  She  will  know  me  when  we  meet 
— as  we  shall  soon.  No,  I  have  not  forgotten.  I  shall 
never  forget  her.  I  can't  I  wouldn't  if  I  could." 

Kathleen  laughed.  Her  answer  was  lost  to  Bob  in 
a  sudden,  fiercer  rising  of  the  wind  that  rattled  the 
windows  like  castanets. 

In  response  to  this  turn  of  the  screw,  his  brow  sud- 
denly creased  in  an  angry  frown.  He  muttered  a  sav- 
age oath.  Then  he  broke  into  a  mirthless,  ironical 
chuckle. 

"Me!  Bob  McAdoo,  the  man  of  iron — save  the 
mark! — apostle  of  self-sufficiency!  Jealous  of  a 
woman — of  a  dream !  Bound !  Helpless !" 

Resolutely  striving  to  put  away  disturbing  thoughts, 
he  closed  the  door  and  set  himself  to  work.  For  an 
hour  he  pored  steadily  over  the  papers  before  him. 
Suddenly  he  swept  them  aside  and  fell  back  in  his  chair, 
chuckling  mirthlessly  once  more.  The  chuckle  in- 
creased in  volume,  became  a  laugh,  a  wild,  unaccount- 
able gale  of  laughter  that  shook  the  body  and  soul  of 
him,  according  with  the  shrieking  storm  that  swept 
over  the  city. 


The  uncanny  laughter  subsided.  "This  business  of 
living,"  Bob  remarked,  "is  a  joke — but  a  decidedly 
practical  joke." 

Later  Paul  went  up  to  Bob's  library  and  began  to 
discuss  the  coming  mayoralty  convention,  set  for  three 
days  thereafter;  under  the  provisions  of  the  "ripper 
bill"  the  Steel  City  was  to  choose  a  new  mayor  in 
February.  The  Republican  primaries  had  already  been 
held,  resulting  in  the  choice  of  delegates,  from  a  ma- 
jority of  the  precincts,  instructed  for  Bob's  candidate, 
Hemenway. 

"Bob,"  said  Paul,  "what's  up?" 

"What's  up?" 

"There's  something  in  the  air.  I  can  feel  it.  I  was 
at  headquarters  to-day,  and  every  one  who  came  in  had 
caught  the  fever  of  restlessness.  But  no  one  could 
fathom  it.  You  and  Haggin  haven't  been  visible  for 
two  days,  and  Hemenway  is  at  home  sick,  no  one  al- 
lowed to  visit  him.  What's  up  ?  My  guess  is  an  inde- 
pendent candidate  backed  by  the  old  MacPherson 
crowd." 

"Worse,"  Bob  answered  coolly.  "Hemenway  has 
sold  us  out." 

Paul  turned  pale.  "My  God!"  he  gasped.  "You 
mean  he  has  gone  over  to  MacPherson,  is  going  to  give 
jthem  the  administration  ?" 

"It's  not  so  simple  as  that.  They're  wise  enough  to 
know  that  Hemenway  is  a  hard  one  to  make  stay 
bought — which  is  more  than  I  knew,"  he  added  grimly. 
"He  is  to  withdraw  the  day  of  the  convention — giving 
ill  health  as  the  excuse — and  leave  his  delegates  un- 
pledged." 

"My  God !"  Paul  gasped  again,  falling  limply  into  a 


LIGHT  TO  THE  BLIND          139- 

chair.  "Why,  man,  it  means — it  means  that  they've 
bought  over  the  delegates,  too,  and  will  push  their  man 
Rusling  through.  They  wouldn't  let  Hemenway  with- 
draw without  first  making  sure  of  the  delegates." 

"Precisely." 

Paul  raised  his  hands  and  let  them  fall  in  a  gesture 
of  utter  helplessness.  "What  shall  we  do  ?"  he  groaned. 
"What  can  we  do  ?" 

"Nothing!" 

"Nothing!"  Paul  cried  in  excited  reproach.  "Are 
you  going  to  allow  them  to  carry  off  the  victory  with- 
out a  fight?" 

"I  say,  nothing,"  Bob  explained  calmly,  "because 
there's  nothing  more  to  do.  It  has  all  been  done.  They 
kept  it  mighty  quiet — they  had  to — but  I  got  wind  of 
it  night  before  last.  They  overreached  themselves,  as 
Mack  generally  does.  They  made  the  mistake  of  going 
to  Haggin.  He  led  them  on,  agreeing  to  everything 
they  proposed,  pocketing  their  money  like  the  old 
grafter  he  is,  and  then  came  and  told  me.  We  got 
busy  at  once.  We  have  the  delegates  back — and  the 
other  crowd  are  out  a  barrel  of  money." 

Paul  leaped  to  his  feet  and  seized  Bob's  hand.  "You 
old  Roman !"  he  exclaimed  in  affectionate  pride.  "They 
can't  beat  you,  can  they?" 

His  face  lighted  up.  "But  what  will  you  do  for  a 
candidate?" 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,"  Bob  answered 
slowly.  "We  must  have  a  man  we  can  count  on  at 
every  turn — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  Paul  interrupted  eagerly. 

"Who  has  good  nerve — " 

"With  the  courage  to  withstand  all  their  power." 


140         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Who  won't  worry  over  newspaper  attacks — " 

"With  a  spirit  too  strong  to  be  wounded  by  their 
malicious  lies." 

"And  not  too  much  conscience,"  Bob  concluded 
dryly.  "There's  just  one  man  in  the  city  wha  fills  the 
bill.  And  he  is — "  He  paused,  searching  Paul's  coun- 
tenance keenly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  Paul's  face  shone  with  anticipation. 

"Myself." 

Bob  turned  his  eyes  away  quickly,  that  he  might  not 
behold  the  disappointment  which  he  knew  was  written 
on  Paul's  face.  For  several  minutes  they  sat  thus, 
without  speaking,  while  the  storm  outside  howled  in 
fierce  glee. 

"I'm  sorry,  Paul,"  Bob  broke  the  silence,  gently  for 
him.  "I  thought  of  you  the  first  thing,  but  I  think  it 
better  not.  It  would  hurt  you  more  than  it  could  help 
you.  The  mayor  of  a  big  city  always  goes  out  of  office 
with  more  enemies  than  when  he  goes  in.  There  is  the 
crowd  of  disappointed  job-hunters,  who  are  convinced 
that  they  have  been  unfairly  treated  and  hate  him  for 
ever  afterward.  Whatever  he  does,  there  are  always 
a  lot  of  critics  who  believe  he  has  behaved  criminally. 
Besides,  the  next  will  be  no  reform  administration. 
We've  got  to  play  politics.  This  trouble  has  shown 
up  several  weak  places  in  the  organization.  We've  got 
to  bolster  them  up.  And  these  fellows  who  tried  to  sell 
us  out — we  have  them  safe  now  and  we'll  keep  them 
so  until  we're  safely  in,  but  then — they'll  wish  they 
hadn't !"  Bob's  face^  as  he  uttered  this  threat,  was  not 
good  to  look  upon. 

"I'm  planning  several  things/'  he  continued  quietly, 
"that  will  stir  up  a  big  howl.  It  won't  hurt  me.  I'm 


LIGHT  TO  THE  BLIND          141 

used  to  it.  I  have  no  personal  hold  on  the  people  any- 
way; they  yell  for  me  now  because  they  think  what 
I'm  doing  is  to  their  advantage — and  because  I'm  on 
top.  But  with  you  it  is  different.  You're  strong  with 
them,  all  over  the  state,  stronger  than  you  know.  You 
can't  afford  to  reduce  that  strength  for  a  mere  mayor- 
alty. You  go  on  building  it  up,  and  your  time  will 
come  for  something  better.  You've  been  square  with 
me,"  he  added  awkwardly,  "when  you  might  have  bet- 
tered yourself  by  going  over.  And  I  won't  forget  it." 

At  this,  the  nearest  approach  to  affectionate  demon- 
stration Bob  had  ever  made,  the  cloud  vanished  from 
Remington's  face.  Impulsively  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Forgive  me,  old  man,"  he  said  with  fine  humility. 
"You  make  me  heartily  ashamed  of  myself.  You  are 
the  prince  of  friends,  and  I'm  a  damned  ingrate.  But 
I  ask  one  favor." 

"All  right.    What  is  it  ?" 

"I  must  present  your  name  to  the  convention.  It 
shall  be  the  speech  of  my  career.  Gad !  what  a  chance ! 
You  say  you  have  no  personal  hold  on  the  people."  He 
began  to  pace  the  floor,  his  eyes  shining  brightly.  "I 
will  compel  them  to  love  you.  They  shall  learn  to  know 
you  in  your  true,  heroic  proportions.  Not  a  man  in  that 
convention  will  dare  vote  against  you." 

"In  the  meantime  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  the  delegates. 
Come  down  to  earth." 

Long  after  Paul  had  gone,  until  the  clock  had  struck 
the  hour  of  four,  Bob  worked  and  read,  closely.  At 
last  he  threw  aside  his  book  and  went  to  the  window. 
A  thick  coat  of  frost  had  covered  it.  He  threw  it  open 
and  looked  out.  The  gale  had  subsided.  Through 
broken  clouds  filtered  the  white  radiance  of  the  setting 


1 42         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

moon,  silvering  snow-encrusted  lawn  and  trees.  The 
silent  beauty  of  the  night  seemed  to  him  uncanny;  it 
touched  no  responsive  chord  in  his  restless  heart.  He 
looked  out  over  the  sleeping  city — his  by  right  of  con- 
quest. He  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"It  hasn't  been  worth  while,"  he  muttered. 


THE  SILVER  TONGUE 

MRS.  Eleanor  Gilbert,  very  handsome  in  her  morn- 
ing gown,  was  pouring  a  second  cup  of  coffee 
for  her  brother. 

"A  pretty  woman  at  the  breakfast  table,"  remarked 
Henry  Sanger,  Jr.,  "is  the  most  charming  picture  in 
the  world." 

Mrs.  Gilbert  shrugged  her  shoulders  listlessly.  "Save 
your  compliments  for  your  wife.  I'm  in  no  humor  for 
them/' 

He  laughed.  "I  know,"  he  said  sympathizingly,  "it's 
that  beastly  salad  we  had  last  night.  Why  do  people 
feed  their  guests  such  indigestibles  ?  I  gave  over  eating 
them  years  ago.  What  is  your  particular  complaint 
against  the  scheme  of  existence  this  morning?" 

"It  is  worse  than  lobster  salad  and  champagne.  It  is 
boredom — deadly  monotony.  I'm  dying  of  stagnation. 
Henry,  you  must — you  simply  must — come  to  my  res- 
cue to-day." 

His  brow  puckered  regretfully.  "Fm  sorry,  Eleanor. 
I'd  like  to  help  you  out,  but  really  I  can't.  My  morning 
is  filled  with  important  board  meetings.  And  this  af- 
ternoon I  have  planned  to  go  to  the  bull-baiting." 

"Bull-baiting?    I  thought  that  sport — " 

"Figure  of  speech.    I  mean  the  convention  at  which 

H3 


144         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

the  local  G.  O.  P.  is  to  choose  the  next  mayor — per- 
haps— of  our  great  city." 

"O,  politics.    And  who  is  to  play  bull  ?" 

"Our  political  lord  and  master,  Robert  McAdoo, 
alias  Knockout  Bob,  alias  the  Boss  of  the  Steel  City." 

"Henry,  what  is  a  boss  ?" 

Sanger  removed  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  sur- 
veyed his  sister  with  mock  reproach. 

"Eleanor,"  he  said  sternly,  "you  betray  a  distressing 
ignorance  of  our  national  institutions.  The  boss  is  our 
American  form  of  government,  because  lawmakers, 
executives  and  judges  are  his  property — by  right  of 
purchase." 

"In  America  that  is  the  one  divine  right,  I  believe?" 

"My  dear,  don't  be  flippant.  The  dollar  is  our  most 
sacred  institution." 

"I  can  readily  believe  it.  That  may  account  for  the 
deadly  dullness  of  our  society.  I  should  like  to  meet 
one  man  or  woman  who  thinks  of  something  else.  But 
this  McAdoo — is  he  a  good  boss?" 

"Where  is  your  Americanism?  There's  no  such 
thing  as  a  good  boss — unless  he  happens  to  be  on  your 
side.  Then  he  becomes  a  leader." 

"I  am  to  suppose  then,"  Mrs.  Gilbert  laughed,  "that 
Boss  McAdoo  isn't  on  your  side  ?" 

"You  are!"  Sanger  answered  shortly.  "  I  consider 
him  the  most  dangerous  politician  in  the  state." 

"Dangerous  ?  Because  he  is  not  on  your  side  ?"  She 
laughed  again. 

Henry  Sanger  believed  himself  sincere,  as  he  an- 
swered, "No!  Because  of  the  manner  of  man  he  is. 
He  is  the  most  absolutely  self-centered,  self-willed  man 
I  know.  He  will  listen  to  no  one  else.  He  would  sac- 


THE  SILVER  TONGUE 

rifice  any  man  or  interest  to  forward  his  own  ambition. 
He  is  essentially  a  bully.  He  was  the  prize  bar-room 
bully  of  his  neighborhood,  in  his  younger  days.  He 
thrashed  an  ex-prize-fighter,  I  believe,  and  that  gave 
him  his  start  in  politics.  He  bullied  his  ward  into  vot- 
ing for  his  men.  Then  he  bullied  his  way  into  control 
of  several  wards,  then  of  the  city.  As  a  boss  whose 
power  is  continually  growing,  I  consider  him  a  menace 
to  this  state.  Bosses  we  must  have.  It  is  only  through 
the  boss  that  capital  holds  the  balance  of  power  against 
the  hare-brained  radicals  infesting  the  country.  But 
the  boss  must  be  a  man  who  will  listen  to  reason  and 
consider  others  than  himself."  He  spoke  strongly. 

"That  is,  you  demand  bosses  whom  you  capitalists 
can  boss?" 

"And  who  has  a  better  right  to  control  than  the  men 
whose  brains  and  industry  and  money  have  developed 
our  wealth?"  Sanger  demanded  hotly. 

"But  if  the  people  can  elect  whom  they  please,  I 
can't  see  why — " 

"O,  the  people !"  Sanger  broke  in  disdainfully.  "They 
can  no  more  be  trusted  with  the  industrial  and  financial 
interests  than  can  a  man  like  McAdoo.  That's  why 
bosses  are  necessary.  But  I  don't  underestimate  him. 
In  the  main,  I  say,  his  methods  and  character  are  those 
of  the  bar-room  bully,  but  he  has  brains.  And  he  knows 
how  to  use  men  and  he  has  learned  the  trick  of  fooling 
the  people.  That's  what  makes  him  so  dangerous." 

"I  think,"  Mrs.  Gilbert  said,  "I  think  I  should  like 
to  go  to  the  convention  with  you.  Would  it  be 
proper?" 

"Well,"  Sanger  said  thoughtfully,  "it  won't  be  a 
very  nice  crowd,  but—" 


146          THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"O,  I  don't  mind  that.  It  will  be  a  new  experience. 
And  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  is  a  godsend  to  me. 
We'll  consider  it  settled." 

If  Eleanor  Gilbert  felt  the  many  curious  glances 
turned  upon  her,  as  she  entered  the  box  her  brother 
had  managed  to  reserve  for  her,  she  gave  no  outward 
sign,  but  proceeded  to  study  the  excited  crowd  with 
amused  eyes.  The  galleries  were  filled  to  overflow- 
ing with  eager  men,  drawn  thither  by  an  unreason- 
ing anticipation  of  some  dramatic  denouement — they 
knew  not  what.  At  the  reporters'  table  were  repre- 
sentatives from  every  paper  of  the  city,  an  unwonted 
attention  from  the  press,  to  an  occasion  supposedly  cut- 
and-dried.  To  Eleanor,  bred  among  a  narrow  set  who 
spend  their  lives  trying  to  forget  their  immediate 
progenitors  and  to  cultivate  a  sense  of  class  superiority, 
this  oneness  with  the  big  crowd,  so  different  from  the 
decorous,  well-groomed  throngs  she  knew  in  the  thea- 
ters, was  a  new  experience.  Her  sensitive  nerves 
caught  the  contagion  of  excitement  with  which  the  at- 
mosphere was  charged.  Sanger  saw  a  tinge  of  color 
come  to  her  usually  pale  cheeks  and  her  eyes  brightened 
perceptibly.  She  caught  him  smiling  at  her. 

"I'm  glad  I  came,"  she  said  brightly.  "I'm  excited 
already,  just  as  though  I  were  a  part  of  it  all.  I  feel 
just  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  little  girl  and  my  governess 
took  me  to  the  play." 

He  laughed.  "You  are  to  see  us  at  our  favorite 
sport.  Base-ball  and  politics  are  our  national  games." 

She  turned  her  eyes  again  to  the  galleries.  "What  a 
big,  curious  animal  it  is,  this  crowd !  What  a  sense  of 
power  one  feels  in  it !" 


THE  SILVER  TONGUE  147 

"Humph!"  Sanger  grunted.  "Look  over  there,  in 
the  box  opposite.  You  will  find  a  more  interesting 
study." 

A  group  of  men  was  just  entering  the  box.  Eleanor 
immediately  fixed  her  attention  upon  one,  the  last  to 
enter,  whose  identity  she  guessed  at  once.  As  was  the 
case  with  most  people,  her  first  impression  was  of  his 
physical  strength. 

"It's  the  boss !  What  tremendous  shoulders." 

Bob  sat  down  in  the  rear  of  the  box,  but,  even  seated, 
he  towered  above  his  companions  by  half  a  head,  and 
Eleanor  could  note  the  strongly  marked  face.  Even 
across  the  theater  she  could  catch  the  cold,  piercing 
glance  with  which  he  swept  the  delegates.  The  glance 
traveled  toward  the  box  in  which  she  sat,  met  hers, 
and,  while  one  might  count  ten,  against  her  will  his 
eyes  held  hers,  and  then  passed  on  to  the  stage. 

Eleanor  leaned  back  and  drew  a  long  breath.  "So 
that's  your  bar-room  bully  ?  I  should  hate  to  be  in  that 
man's  power.  He  is — relentless." 

Sanger  nodded.  "I  told  you  he  is  dangerous." 

The  convention  was  called  to  order.  A  permanent 
chairman  was  chosen,  who,  after  a  brief  speech,  de- 
clared the  meeting  open  for  mayoralty  nominations.  At 
once  a  man  sprang  to  his  feet  and,  in  a  speech  bristling 
with  high-flown  metaphors,  nominated  "that  clean 
man,  that  sterling  friend  of  the  people,  James  Rus- 
ling."  His  speech  was  greeted  with  perfunctory  ap- 
plause. 

As  the  applause  died  down,  another  man  secured 
recognition. 

"Mr.  Chairman  and  gentlemen  of  the  convention," 
he  began,  "it  was  to  have  been  my  privilege  to  place 


148         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

before  this  convention  the  name  of  William  Hemen- 
way,  whose  devotion  to  the  Republican  party  and  to 
the  interests  of  the  people  needs  no  praise  from  me.  It 
is  therefore  with  the  keenest  regret  I  have  received 
from  him  a  letter,  which  I  now  hold,  in  which  he  gives 
me  the  distressing  news  that  he  has  been  stricken  with 
ill  health,  such  as  to  incapacitate  him  for  the  arduous 
duties  of  a  campaign  and  of  the  office  of  mayor.  He 
therefore  authorizes  me  to  withdraw  his  candidacy  and 
requests  those  delegates  instructed  for  him  to  cast  their 
votes  for  the  gentleman  who  has  been  so  eloquently 
nominated,  James  Rusling." 

For  a  moment  the  great  crowd  sat  in  the  silence  of 
blank  bewilderment.  Then,  as  the  import  of  the  an- 
nouncement dawned  upon  them,  an  angry  murmur 
arose  from  the  galleries.  Down  in  the  body  of  the 
house  a  delegate,  a  big,  burly  ruffian,  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Sick— hell !"  he  shouted.  "We  know  the  kind  of 
sickness  Bill  Hemenway  has." 

It  was  a  signal  for  uproar.  In  an  instant  men,  in  the 
galleries  and  on  the  floor,  were  on  their  feet.  The  pro- 
testing murmur  grew  into  a  roar,  a  storm  of  anger  and 
derision.  Eleanor,  for  a  moment  frightened  by  the 
furious  clamor,  turned  pale. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  her  brother  excitedly. 
"What  do  they  mean  ?" 

"Hemenway  was  McAdoo's  candidate.  He  has  been 
persuaded  to  withdraw  in  favor  of  Rusling,  the  other 
candidate." 

"O,  what  a  low  trick !" 

"Nonsense!"  Sanger  said  sharply.  "Everything  is 
fair  in  politics,  especially  when  you're  fighting  a  man 
like  McAdoo." 


THE  SILVER  TONGUE  149 

She  did  not  argue  the  point,  but  turned  to  look  once 
more  at  the  boss.  To  all  appearances  he  was  the  one 
cool  man  in  the  theater.  He  was  sitting,  arms  folded 
across  his  chest,  his  face  expressionless  as  a  mask, 
looking  out  on  the  furious  crowd  with  the  same  cold, 
piercing  glance  that  gave  no  clue  to  his  thoughts  or 
emotions. 

The  uproar  died  down,  and  tense  silence  succeeded 
once  more.  What  the  crowd  had  anticipated  had  hap- 
pened. They  recognized  MacPherson's  crafty  hand. 
Was  the  boss  checkmated  by  his  sworn  enemy?  In 
the  hearts  of  the  McAdoo  followers  consternation 
reigned. 

Out  of  the  tense  silence  a  voice  rang  out, 

"Mr.  Chairman!" 

"Mr.  Remington!" 

The  big  man  who  had  broken  the  silence  before  now 
sprang  to  his  feet  again.  "Remington !"  he  shouted  en- 
thusiastically. "Remington!  Give  'em  hell,  Paul,  give 
'em  hell !"  The  crowd  took  up  the  shout.  "Remington ! 
Remington !"  While  the  applause  lasted,  Eleanor  saw 
a  young  man  walk  rapidly  toward  the  stage  from  his 
seat  in  the  rear  of  the  parquet. 

"Who  is  he  ?"  she  demanded  of  her  brother. 

"McAdoo's  mouthpiece,"  he  answered  shortly,  shift- 
ing uneasily  in  his  seat. 

As  he  stood  on  the  platform,  waiting  for  the  applause 
to  subside,  Paul  Remington  thrilled  with  the  knowledge 
that  his  moment  had  come — a  moment  such  as  comes 
but  once  in  a  lifetime,  and  to  but  few  men.  All  the 
night  before  and  all  that  day  to  the  hour  of  the  con- 
vention, he  had  paced  his  rooms  planning  his  speech; 
whipping  himself  into  an  emotional  delirium.  As  one 


150         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

in  a  trance,  he  had  walked  to  the  theater  and  witnessed 
the  preliminary  proceedings.  And  he  had  found  the 
properties  right,  the  atmosphere  electric  with  excite- 
ment, the  crowd  eager,  tense,  ready  to  be  played  upon 
by  a  master  hand.  The  dramatic  quality  of  the  mo- 
ment was  the  last  spur  needed.  His  theatric  soul  rushed 
to  his  need.  Every  fiber  of  his  being  was  aquiver  with 
passion — a  passion  for  the  moment  real,  dominating, 
overwhelming. 

And  before  hirn  sat  the  woman  of  his  dreams. 

He  raised  his  hand  and  the  applause  ceased.  There 
was  an  instant's  hush. 

"I  am  not  here  to  upbraid.    ..." 

The  tragedy  that  had  come  into  her  young  life  had 
left  Eleanor  Gilbert  but  one  relic  of  her  girlhood,  a 
passionate  love  of  music.  As  the  first  words  fell  from 
Paul's  lips,  she  felt  a  thrill.  For  a  time,  giving  no  heed 
to  the  sense  of  his  words,  she  listened  with  the  mu- 
sician's trained  ear  to  the  wonderful  voice,  deep  yet 
resonant  and  flexible,  under  perfect  control,  carrying  a 
faintly  minor  quality.  Gradually  the  spell  of  the  orator 
took  hold  upon  her.  The  voice  ceased  to  be  the  musical 
instrument,  became  the  medium  for  the  transmission  of 
his  passion.  Every  paragraph,  every  sentence  was  a 
.chariot  of  fire,  carrying  some  burning  truth  straight  to 
the  heart  of  the  hearer. 

"We  are  citizens  of  no  mean  city.  We  are  the  indus- 
trial leader  of  an  age  distinctively  industrial.  .  .  . 
But  I  do  not  boast  of  our  achievements,  rather  of  those 
that  achieved.  The  work  and  greatness  of  this  city  are 
the  work  and  greatness  of  the  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  men  and  women  who  here  live  and  strive.  To  the 
organizer,  the  capitalist  who  has  reaped  the  first  fruits 


THE    SILVER   TONGUE         151 

of  our  sowing-,  I  do  not  begrudge  one  jot  of  the  praise 
due  him.  But  the  one  factor  in  our  progress  without 
which  it  could  not  have  been  possible  has  been  the 
brawn  and  brain  and  industry  pf  the  people. 

"And  so  in  the  nation. 

"When  the  American  Republic  was  founded,  the  tri- 
umph of  democracy  was  believed  complete.  But  eternal 
vigilance  is  the  price  of  liberty.  And  we — almost  to 
our  undoing — have  slept."  In  simple  yet  vivid  words 
Paul  went  on  to  describe  the  commercial,  industrial  and 
political  evils  that  have  taken  root  among  us. 

"Yet  these  evils,"  he  declared,  "pernicious  as  their 
immediate  effects,  might  be  endured,  were  it  not  that 
they  threaten  the  existence  of  our  vital  institution, 
popular  government.  Time  was,  perhaps,  when  our  in- 
dustrial kings  were  content  to  build  within  the  pale  of 
the  law.  But  industrial  conditions  and  methods 
changed.  The  law  lost  its  reverend  quality.  Wealth 
entered  the  realm  of  politics.  Vast  political  machines 
controlled  by  vaster  financial  rings,  seized  our  great 
political  parties.  Obsolete  laws,  passed  to  meet  the 
puny  industrial  conditions  of  a  generation  gone,  were 
forcibly  retained.  Where  it  became  necessary,  as  a  sop 
to  a  restless  people,  to  pass  new  and  broader  laws,  ex- 
ecutives and  courts  were  seated  who  would  sustain  in- 
fractions of  those  laws.  The  machinery  of  the  law — 
government — has  become  the  creature  of  corporate 
wealth." 

At  this  point  in  his  speech  Paul  cast  aside  restraint 
and  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  invective  against  corpo- 
rate greed  and  its  servants.  At  the  conclusion  of  his 
climax  not  a  sound  could  be  heard  in  the  theater.  His 
audience  sat  wrapped  in  an  ominous  silence. 


152         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"What  do  these  things  mean  ?"  Paul  continued.  "Of 
late  a  new  word  has  come  into  use  among  us,  plu- 
tocracy! Government  by  wealth,  for  wealth — by  the 
very  nature  of  the  lust  that  gives  it  birth,  ever  con- 
scienceless, pitiless,  ever  unutterably  selfish,  an  enemy 
to  the  equal  brotherhood  of  men!  .  .  .  Plutocracy 
among  us  has  no  reason  for  existence.  It  denies  civili- 
zation. It  is  a  reversion  to  the  barbarous  reasoning  of 
a  thousand  years  ago.  It  gives  the  lie  to  history.  I  re- 
turn to  my  former  proposition — what  we  are  to-day, 
that  we  have  grown  steadily  in  power  and  influence, 
that  we  have  added  miraculously  to  our  material 
wealth,  that  we  have  met  political  and  industrial  crises 
successfully,  is  due,  not  to  the  genius  and  courage  of  a 
few,  but  to  the  character  of  the  whole  people. 

"The  great,  sane,  common  people  of  this  land  can  be 
trusted  with  our  future.  Therefore  we  must  not  re- 
linquish control  of  that  future.  The  government  of 
this  people,  ours  by  decree  of  Almighty  God,  must  re- 
main in  the  hands  of  the  people !" 

The  men  of  that  audience,  drawn  from  many  sources, 
possessed  a  common  heritage.  It  was  a  far  cry  to  the 
Bourne,  to  the  Scottish  hills,  to  Marston  Moor,  to  the 
bloody  streets  of  Berlin.  But  in  their  veins  coursed 
the  blood  of  those  who  had  made  those  fields  memor- 
able. And  to  them  Paul's  burning  words  were  as  a 
summons  to  battle — a  battle  against  odds,  against  op- 
pression. They  met  his  cry  with  the  only  answer  given 
him  during  his  speech — the  battle  cry. 

"Fools !  Claptrap !"  Eleanor  heard  her  brother  mut- 
ter. She  looked  at  him.  He  was  pale  and  nervous. 

"Hush !" 

She  looked  across  the  theater  toward  Bob.   He,  too, 


THE    SILVER   TONGUE         153 

was  pale.  His  hands,  still  folded  across  his  chest,  held 
the  biceps  in  a  fierce  grip.  His  forehead  was  creased 
in  a  deep  frown.  What  did  that  frown  mean  ?  she  won- 
dered, almost  subconsciously. 

When  Paul  resumed  speaking,  he  gave  his  speech  a 
more  specific  application.  In  plain,  unmincing  terms  he 
outlined  the  political  history  of  the  state.  In  it  the 
forces  of  plutocracy  were  most  strongly  entrenched. 
For  a  generation,  until  the  time  when  John  Dunmeade 
had  dared  to  set  his  face  against  the  powers  of  corrup- 
tion, it  had  lain  prostrate,  unprotesting,  under  the  heel 
of  a  great  railway  monopoly.  This  monopoly,  abetted 
by  the  steel  interests  of  the  city,  had  robbed  the  great- 
est state  of  the  union  of  its  virtue  and  independence. 
One  man,  by  grace  of  his  control  of  the  railway  sys- 
tem, had  dictated  the  choice  of  officers  and  their  official 
policy.  Thus,  the  political  power  of  six  millions  of 
people  concentrated  in  the  hands  of  one  man,  formed 
the  chief  of  plutocracy's  strongholds.  If  the  people  of 
the  republic  were  to  do  battle  for  their  liberties,  in  that 
state  the  battle  would  be  lost  or  won. 

As  this  state  was  the  heart  of  the  plutocratic  system, 
so  was  their  city  the  heart  of  the  state's  corruption. 
The  great  city  was  a  mine  to  be  shared  with  no  inter- 
loper. And  here  the  monopoly  had  reigned  supreme, 
by  right  of  the  might  of  its  wealth.  Bosses  might  come 
and  bosses  might  go,  but  one  and  all  they  owed  alle- 
giance to  the  one  master  four  hundred  miles  away, 
whose  wrath  was  more  to  be  feared  by  the  politically 
ambitious  than  the  anger  of  God.  In  return  for  their 
allegiance,  the  bosses  had  been  permitted  to  pillage  the 
city  at  will — while  the  people  had  slept  on. 

"Tell  me,  you  men,"  Paul  cried  passionately;  "what 


154         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

do  you  think  of  yourselves  ?  What  a  picture !  The  in- 
dustrial center!  Your  city  the  mighty!  The  harlot 
among  the  cities,  walking  the  streets  and  crying  the 
rags  of  her  virtue  to  the  highest  bidder!  Did  some 
man,  more  brave  than  his  fellows,  protest?  The  city 
bosses,  secure  in  the  might  of  their  despotic  lord  and 
in  your  criminal  lethargy,  brazenly  flaunting  the  dollar 
brand  on  their  foreheads,  answered  with  the  corrup- 
tionist's  challenge,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? 
And  we — we,  corrupt  but  content — did  nothing. 

"But  not  all  of  us.  There  was  a  man  in  our  midst, 
bred  in  their  school,  who  saw  their  power  and  deter- 
mined to  break  it.  ...  " 

Simply,  without  exaggeration,  Paul  sketched  the  lo- 
cal political  history,  beginning  with  Bob's  open  break 
with  MacPherson  and  leading  up  to  his  victory  in  the 
recent  primaries,  when  Hemenway  had  been  nominated. 

"  ...  So  this  man  of  steel,  standing  alone 
against  the  corporate  wealth  of  a  whole  state,  has  put 
your  enemy  to  rout.  To  William  Hemenway  he  gave 
the  opportunity  to  do  a  great  work  in  the  cause  of  the 
people.  That  opportunity  William  Hemenway  declines 
— for  obvious  reasons!  'What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it  ?'  Whom  will  you  choose  in  his  stead  ? 

"My  friends,"  Paul  cried  with  a  sweeping  gesture 
that  included  the  galleries  in  his  question,  "I  ask  you, 
who  of  all  our  city  is  the  one  man  fitted  to  stand  at 
your  head  and  lead  your  fight?" 

He  paused  an  instant,  as  a  murmur  of  unbelieving 
wonderment  passed  over  the  audience.  Eleanor,  fol- 
lowing the  eyes  of  a  thousand  others,  looked  toward  the 
opposite  box.  But  Bob  was  gone. 


THE    SILVER    TONGUE          155 

In  a  voice  sunk  almost  to  a  whisper  and  tremulous 
with  suppressed  feeling,  Paul  spoke  again. 

"In  your  faces  I  read  the  answer.  There  can  be  but 
one  answer.  You  may  think  that  I  perhaps  exaggerate 
his  strength  because  he  is  my  friend.  He  is  my  friend, 
and  therefore  I,  who  have  sounded  the  depths  of  his 
heart,  know  the  man's  mighty  mold.  To  be  a  friend 
— what  is  it?  The  finest  thing  given  to  man.  When 
the  Christ  came  to  earth,  He  chose  to  be  called  The 
Friend.  Friendship  is  the  mirror  of  the  soul ;  in  it  ap- 
pear the  strength  and  weakness  of  a  man.  This  man 
has  been  to  me  the  perfect  friend — God  do  so  to  me, 
if  I  forget !  He  who  is  capable  of  such  a  friendship  can 
be  trusted  with  the  people's  cause. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  he  concluded,  "I  have  the  honor 
to  nominate  my  friend,  Robert  McAdoo." 

He  walked  off  the  stage  into  the  wings,  amid  a  per- 
fect silence.  For  a  full  minute  the  audience,  under  his 
spell,  sat  mute  and  motionless;  there  was  no  thought 
of  applause.  Finally  the  chairman  started,  as  from  a 
dream,  and  arose.  With  an  audible  sigh  the  audience 
stirred  to  life.  Paul,  listening  from  the  wings  and  fear- 
ing to  hear  applause,  breathed  deeply  in  relief.  His 
moment  had  indeed  come. 

"And  gone !"  he  muttered  complainingly.  He  turned 
away — to  meet  a  stern-faced  man,  who  looked  at  him 
fixedly. 

"You  did  well,  Paul,"  said  the  stern-faced  man. 
"You've  cut  out  a  big  job  for  me." 

That  was  all.  But  Paul  had  received  a  finer  tribute 
even  than  the  silence  of  the  audience.  Bob's  voice  was 
husky. 


156         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Henry  Sanger  vigorously  wiped  his  brow  with  his 
handkerchief. 

"God !"  he  muttered. 

"Will  you  please  go  and  bring  him  here?"  Eleanor 
asked  him.  "I  must  know  that  man." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   LADY   OF   DREAMS 

HT^HE  convention  had  been  adjourned.  Robert  Mc- 
JL  Adoo  was  the  Republican  nominee  for  mayor.  And 
Paul  Remington  had  met  the  lady  of  his  dreams. 
Sanger  had  brought  him  to  her  and  performed  the  in- 
troduction. Afterward  he  had  left,  pleading  a  business 
engagement. 

Eleanor  for  a  few  minutes  watched  the  crowd,  as  it 
slowly  passed  out  from  the  theater.  Then  she  turned  to 
Paul. 

"I  shall  not  congratulate  you,"  she  said  gravely.  "I 
paid  you  a  better  compliment,  while  you  were  speaking. 
Are  you  ready  to  say,  Now  let  me  die  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered  with  equal  gravity,  "I  am  ready 
to  say,  Now  let  me  live.  I  have  met  you  at  last." 

She  raised  her  hand  protestingly.  "Please  don't 
spoil  my  impression  of  you.  You  were  wonderful.  I 
have  heard  of  orators  swaying  audiences  to  their  will, 
but  I  never  before  realized  what  it  means.  My  brother 
tells  me  you  saved  Mr.  McAdoo  from  defeat." 

Paul  took  a  keen  pleasure  in  his  honesty,  as  he  re- 
sisted temptation  and  answered  lightly,  "O,  no.  The 
result  would  have  been  the  same  without  my  speech. 
It  was  such  an  absurdly  impossible  trick,  that  of  brib- 
ing Hemenway  oft  and  buying  up  his  delegates.  Its 

157 


158         THE  MAN  HIGHER,  UP 

success  depended  upon  their  catching  Bob  napping. 
They  didn't  know  the  old  fellow.  All  I  did  was  to 
furnish  a  reason  for  an  action  already  determined 
upon." 

"Ah !"  she  said  regretfully.  "Then  it  was  all  planned 
beforehand  ?" 

"Every  step !" 

"Even  to  your  speech  ?" 

He  nodded  smilingly.  "You  know,  Mrs.  Gilbert, 
there  never  was  a  speech  worth  giving  that  wasn't  pre- 
pared beforehand.  Every  word  of  that  speech  was  writ- 
ten out  and  memorized  verbatim.  For  thirty-six  hours 
I  have  neither  eaten  nor  slept,  done  nothing  but  study 
it  and  work  up  to  the  nervous  tension  necessary  to  its 
successful  delivery." 

"Then  all  those  burning  words  were  a  sham,  all  that 
display  of  splendid  passion  a  theatrical  trick  to  save  a 
man  not  worthy — " 

"No,  no !"  he  broke  in  eagerly.  "All  I  said  was  true 
— true  as  life  and  death.  And  Bob — you  don't  know 
him — he  is  magnificent,  worthy  of — " 

"Spare  me,"  she  impatiently  interrupted.  "I  heard 
that  once  before — in  your  speech.  I  am  frankly  disap- 
pointed. You  carried  me  out  of  myself.  I  forgot  rea- 
son, prejudice,  everything.  I  believed  you  a  genuine 
master-spirit,  compelling  us  to  see  the  truth.  Now — 
I  see  you  are  only  a  clever  actor,  tricking  us  into  ignor- 
ing the  truth."  She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "But  it  is 
good  to  get  one's  feet  on  solid  ground  once  more. 
After  all,  these  rarified  atmospheres  don't  sustain  life. 

"But,"  she  added,  "you  did  it  well.  I  congratulate 
you — now." 

Paul  merely  laughed.    She  rose  to  leave. 


THE  LADY  OF  DREAMS         159 

"Please  don't  go  yet,"  he  begged.  "I  have  something 
to  say  to  you."  She  noted  that  the  theater  was  not  yet 
empty  and  sat  down  once  more.  There  was  a  pause, 
while  Paul  abstractedly  studied  the  carpet  at  his  feet. 

"Well?" 

He  looked  up,  laughing.  "Do  you  know,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  think,  I  am  at  loss  what  to  say,  or 
rather  how  to  say  it.  Do  you  believe  in  preexistences  ?" 

"Decidedly  not.  I'm  fairly  healthy.  And,  besides, 
the  present  existence  demands  all  my  attention.  Was 
it  to  ask — " 

"Xo,  that  was  only  by  way  of  introduction.  What 
would  you  say,  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that,  although  I 
have  just  met  you  and  have  seen  you  but  twice  before 
so  far  as  I  can  remember,  I  seem  to  have  known  you 
always  ?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "That  you  are  the  vic- 
tim of  an  overheated  imagination." 

"Of  course,"  he  answered  calmly.  "What  we  don't 
learn  in  our  own  experience  we  always  accept  with  a 
grain  of  doubt.  I  myself  have  difficulty  in  believing 
that  the  world  is  round.  You  are  like  the  rest  of  us, 
Mrs.  Gilbert." 

"O,  yes,"  she  said  indifferently,  "I'm  very  human, 
just  ordinary  flesh  and  blood.  You  are  aboii^  to  tell 
me,  of  course,  that  you — " 

"Please  save  your  irony  until  I  have  finished,"  he 
said  gravely.  "I  am,  and  it  is  true.  Probably  at  some 
forgotten  time  and  place  I  have  seen  you. — But  any- 
how, for  years — I  can't  say  exactly  when  it  began — I 
have  been  haunted  by  a  dream  of  a  woman.  She  has 
been  my  ideal.  It  will  strike  you  as  sentimental  rot,  of 
course,  yet  I  have  lain  whole  nights  sleepless,  staring 


160         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

at  a  vision  of  her  that  could  not  have  been  more 
distinct,  if  flesh  and  blood.  At  first  I  resisted,  calling 
myself  a  romantic  ass.  But  resistance  was  useless. 
And  in  time  the  feeling  I  had  for  her  became  an  abso- 
lute knowledge  that  some  day  I  should  know  her. 

"One  day,  five  years  ago,  I  saw  her  for  an  instant — 
just  as  I  had  dreamed  her.  Then  again  a  few  days  ago 
I  saw  her.  And  when  I  stood  on  the  stage  to-day  and 
saw  you  in  the  audience,  I  wasn't  surprised.  It  seemed 
natural  that  at  the  moment  when  I  was  about  to  do  a 
rather  good  thing  you  should  be  present.  I  don't  say 
that  I  was  talking  to -you  alone,  or  that  you  were  my 
inspiration,  or  anything  like  that.  But  I  can  say  that 
at  no  time  was  I  free  from  the  consciousness  of  your 
presence  and  a  sort  of  subconscious  rejoicing — not  a 
tickled  vanity,  if  you  please — that  you  in  a  way  could 
share  my  moment.  That  is  all.  Now  you  may  scoff, 
Mrs.  Gilbert." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  again,  a  fashion  she  had. 
"I'm  sorry — you  will  forgive  me,  Mr.  Remington? — 
I'm  not  deeply  impressed — and  a  bit  incredulous." 

"I  didn't  expect  you  to  be  impressed,"  he  answered 
quietly,  "and  I'm  not  proposing — yet.  But,  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert," his  head  went  up,  eyes  flashing,  "I'm  not  a  senti- 
mental fool,  although  I  have  told  you  this  at  first  meet- 
ing. And  I  am  to  be  taken  seriously." 

"Why  don't  you  go  on  the  stage  ?"  she  fleered. 

Paul  looked  at  her  uncertainly  for  a  moment,  then 
his  gravity  was  cast  aside  as  a  cloak.  He  made  some  in- 
consequent answer  and  promptly  led  the  talk  into  other 
and  lighter  channels,  whither  she  followed  him  care- 
lessly. 

So  they  went  on  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour, 


THE  LADY  OF  DREAMS         161 

bandying  nonsense.  Paul,  luxuriating  in  her  presence, 
cared  little  for  the  meaning  of  their  words,  so  he  might 
watch  the  play  of  her  beautiful  features  and  hear  her 
voice.  A  dozen,  times  she  determined  to  leave,  and  as 
often  made  the  lingering  groups  an  excuse  for  remain- 
ing herself.  She  was  not  quite  free  from  the  spell  he 
had  woven  about  her  during  his  speech.  Something  in 
the  man  broke  down  her  habit  of  cold  indifference  to 
men,  and  put  her  on  her  mettle ;  she  strove  to  meet  his 
occasional  witty  sallies  in  kind,  sometimes  with  a  suc- 
cess that  delighted  them  both.  Once,  when  their  badi- 
nage assumed  a  more  personal  tone,  she  protested. 

"We're  talking  as  though  we  were  old  friends,"  she 
said. 

"Of  course,"  he  responded  calmly.  "We  are.  That 
was  written  long  ago." 

"Your  confidence  is  a  poor  compliment  to  me !" 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  compliments,  but  of  fate !  And 
of  invincible  determination !  Do  you  suppose  that,  hav- 
ing now  found  the  lady  of  my  dreams,  I  shall  rest  until 
we  are  friends — perfect  friends?" 

"You  don't  doubt  your  ability  to  win  my  friend- 
ship?" 

"Absolutely,  no !"  he  responded,  in  gay  assurance. 

"You  have  many  friends  ?"  she  queried  curiously. 

"I  have  been  lucky  in  the  matter  of  friends." 

"And  do  you  give  them  all  the  same  romantic  appre- 
ciation and  return  you  professed  for  Mr.  McAdoo?  Or 
was  that  part  of  the  play-acting,  too?  It  was  your  most 
effective  bit,  by  the  way." 

"Ah !"  he  cried.  "You  persist  in  doubting  my  sin- 
cerity. That,  at  least,  was  not  play-acting.  I  hadn't  even 
prepared  it.  It  was  in  my  heart,  and  forced  itself  into 


1 62         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

words,  that  was  all.  No,  I  don't  give  to  every  one  the 
same  return  I  give  him,  because  there  are  few  such 
friends." 

"I  can't  see  what  you  find  in  common  with  one  who, 
my  brother  tells  me,  is  typical  of  the  very  worst  in  our 
politics." 

"I  forgot  you  are  of  the  enemy,"  he  laughed,  and 
added  more  soberly,  "Your  brother  is  wrong.  There 
may  have  been  regrettable  things  in  Bob's  earlier  ca- 
reer. But  in  the  six  years  I  have  known  him,  I  have 
seen  little  of  the  dirty  politician.  His  victories  have 
been  won  chiefly  by  his  courage  and  resourcefulness 
and  the  fact  that  men,  whether  they  like  him  or  not,  in- 
stinctively trust  him  and  follow  him.  If  he  has  resorted 
to  questionable  tactics,  it  has  been  only  to  meet  similar 
methods  of  the  opposition.  And  his  victories  have  been 
very  much  to  the  advantage  of  this  city." 

"And  to  the  advantage  of  his  loyal  friend,  I  sup- 
pose," she  suggested  inquiringly.  "You  are,  no  doubt 
— I'm  very  ignorant  of  politics — some  one  very  im- 
portant, a  high  officer,  congressman,  at  least  ?" 

"O,  no.  I'm  only  a  senator  of  the  common  or  gar- 
den variety,  a  very  unimportant  member  of  our  state 
legislature." 

"While  he  has  become  boss,"  she  added.  "It 
seems — " 

"Don't,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  I  beg  of  you,"  he  interrupted 
gravely.  "It  would  be  disloyal  for  me  to  listen  to  such 
suggestions  even  from  you.  You  don't  understand 
what  a  friendship  ours  is.  I  think  few  men  have  felt 
such  a  deep  affection  as  Bob  and  I  have  for  each  other. 
For  all  that  men  follow  him,  he  has  few  real  friends, 
practically  none  at  all  but  me.  And  he  gives  me  all  his 


THE  LADY  OF  DREAMS         163 

heart.  The  least  I  can  do  is  to  trust  him.  I  could  fill  a 
higher  position,  and  I  often  chafe  over  my  slow  climb. 
If  I  were  to  insist,  he  would  help  me  to  the  best  in  his 
power  to  give.  But  his  judgment  and  his  heart  are  to 
be  trusted.  You  shall  know  him  and  then  you  will  un- 
derstand why  I  trust  him  so  absolutely.  You  see,"  he 
added  smilingly,  "I'm  very  enthusiastic." 

"Thank  you,  no!"  she  said  indifferently.  "I  approve 
of  your  loyalty,  of  course.  But  I  saw  your  friend  this 
afternoon  and,  frankly,  I  don't  think  I  should  like  him. 
I  don't  care  to  meet — " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  both  looked  up  startled, 
feeling  another's  presence.  It  was  Bob  who  had  come 
into  the  box,  unnoticed  by  them.  To  both  Paul  and 
Eleanor,  it  was  as  though  a  cloud  had  passed  across  the 
face  of  the  sun. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  while  Bob,  standing 
motionless  in  the  rear  of  the  box,  looked  steadily  at 
Eleanor  with  coldly  hostile  eyes.  And  Eleanor,  startled 
but  not  disconcerted,  returned  his  with  a  glance  into 
which  she  strove  to  put  amusement. 

Paul  sought  to  take  into  his  hands  what  threatened 
to  be  a  situation. 

"It's  fate,  Mrs.  Gilbert,"  he  said  with  a  laugh  which 
he  tried  to  render  easy.  "Let  me  present  our  next 
mayor.  Mrs.  Gilbert,  Bob,  has  just  avowed  her  alliance 
with  the  enemy.  We  must  convert  her." 

"Why?"  Bob  answered  crudely,  without  changing 
his  regard. 

And  somehow,  as  he  said  it,  Bob's  monosyllable  car- 
ried a  sting  far  sharper  than  its  crude  surface  irony. 
It  put  her  strangely  on  the  defensive;  and  theretofore, 
with  men,  Mrs.  Eleanor  Gilbert  had  always  been  mis- 


1 64         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

tress  of  the  situation.  She  tried  to  answer  with  in- 
difference. 

"You  have  so  many  enemies  that  one  more  or  less 
can  not  disturb  you?" 

"I  have  many." 

"And  the  habit  of  beating  them,  I  believe  ?" 

"I  believe  so,"  he  answered  steadily. 

"But  Bob  doesn't  make  war  on  women,"  Paul  inter- 
rupted with  nervous  eagerness. 

"Too  small  game,  I  suppose,"  she  said  with  the 
mocking  upward  inflection  that  had  so  often  put  men 
to  flight. 

"It  has  never  been  necessary,"  Bob  responded,  un- 
moved by  her  sarcasm. 

And  Eleanor,  beaten,  gave  up  the  battle  of  eyes.  Yet 
there  was  defiance  in  her  laugh,  as  she  said, 

"Air.  McAdoo  would  be  as  merciless  to  a  woman  as 
to  any  other  enemy,  I  fancy.  But  I  must  go." 

This  time  Paul  did  not  protest. 

The  two  men  followed  her  silently  out  of  the  theater 
to  the  street.  As  she  was  about  to  step  into  the  auto- 
mobile, she  gathered  her  courage  for  a  last  effort. 

"It  has  been  a  very  interesting  afternoon.  I  thank 
you — both."  She  gave  Bob  a  fleeting,  mocking  look 
and  turned  to  Paul.  "Come  and  see  me,  Mr.  Reming- 
ton. We  will  discuss  politics.  Good  afternoon,  Mr. 
McAdoo."  And  she  was  rapidly  whirled  away. 

Paul  drew  a  deep  breath.  "I  don't  see  why  you  and 
she  don't  hit  it  off  better.  She's  wonderful." 

"She's  the  devil !"  Bob  growled. 

Paul  did  not  answer  this  outburst. 

"Let's  have  a  drink,"  he  suggested.  "I'm  limp  as  a 
rag.  You've  got  to  break  over  this  time,  old  man." 


THE  LADY  OF  DREAMS         165 

They  entered  a  near-by  saloon.  When  they  had 
poured  their  whisky,  Paul  raised  his  glass. 

"To  the  next  mayor !" 

"Luck !"  Bob  said  briefly.  "And  wisdom !"  he  added. 

"We'll  not  quarrel  over  that,  Bob,"  Paul  said 
gravely.  And  they  drank. 

Safe  in  the  seclusion  of  the  hooded  automobile,  Elea- 
nor Gilbert  was  repeating,  half  in  amusement,  half  in 
resentment, 

"What  a  man !  My  dear,  you  caught  it  that  time. 
And  you  deserved  it !  What  a  man !" 

She  did  not  refer  to  Paul. 


CHAPTER  X 

DISCONTENT 

IN  the  tallest  of  the  city's  skyscrapers,  in  the  highest 
story  of  said  building,  were,  as  the  letters  on  the 
ground-glass  door  announced,  the  law  offices  of  Paul 
Remington.  The  term  "law  offices"  was  perhaps  a  mis- 
nomer. For  upon  Paul  had  fallen  the  distrust  which 
the  business  public  often  feels  for  the  political  lawyer, 
and  the  bulk  of  his  practice  consisted  principally  in  car- 
ing for  the  legal  end  of  Bob's  business  ventures  and  in 
helping  their  political  friends  out  of  police-court 
scrapes. 

Yet  these  offices  were  not  a  place  of  idleness.  For  at 
one  end  was  a  ten-by-twelve  apartment,  furnished  with 
a  roll-top  desk,  one  revolving-chair  and  two  cane-bot- 
tom affairs  called  chairs  by  courtesy  and  apt  to  limit 
the  visitor's  call  to  a  purely  business  length.  This, 
denominated  by  Paul  "the  engine-room,"  was  Bob's 
office  where,  hand  on  throttle,  he  directed  his  political 
machine. 

The  rest  of  the  suite,  equipped  by  Bob's  money  and 
Paul's  taste,  was  so  arranged  as  to  resemble  an  office  as 
little  as  possible.  Massive  black  oak  chairs  awaited  the 
visitor.  Thick  velvet  carpets  caressed  his  feet.  Some 
excellent  etchings  and  rows  of  calf-bound  books  com- 
pleted the  atmosphere  of  a  library.  Only  the  presence 

166 


DISCONTENT  167 

of  Miss  Myrtle  Jones,  stenographer,  reminded  you  that 
this  was  a  legal  center.  Miss  Jones  was  not  the  least 
decorative  feature  of  the  office — which  was  why  Paul 
engaged  her.  Moreover,  Miss  Jones  was  distinctly 
aware  of  this  fact.  Toward  the  appreciative  Paul  she 
was  the  eager  helper.  Toward  Bob,  of  whom  she  stood 
greatly  in  fear  and  whose  acrid  humor  she  could  not 
understand,  she  preserved  a  primly  professional  atti- 
tude. 

On  the  particular  morning  some  two  weeks  after 
the  convention,  Miss  Jones  was  early  at  her  post.  And 
very  pretty,  too.  There  really  was  no  reason  for  such 
early  industry.  But  Miss  Jones  wisely  reasoned  that 
the  sooner  your  work  was  finished  the  more  time  you 
would  have  for — for  more  work  perhaps?  She  raised 
her  head  with  a  start,  as  the  door  opened — and 
dropped  it  in  disappointment  as  Bob  entered  with  a 
curt  greeting. 

Later  Bob  summoned  her  to  his  office. 

"Will  yotf  take  a  letter,  Miss  Jones?" 

As,  head  bent  over  her  note-book,  she  took  down  his 
words,  Bob  smiled  sardonically  at  her  elaborate  coif 
and  careful  toilet.  When  things  went  wrong,  as  they 
occasionally  did  even  with  him,  his  ill  humor  took  the 
form  of  an  ugly,  stinging  pleasantry.  The  night  previ- 
ous he  had  lost  a  trick  in  the  campaign,  through  treach- 
ery. And  he  was  troubled,  although  he  would  not  admit 
it  to  himself,  over  another  matter. 

"You  may  conclude  with  the  customary  lie  of  'yours 
truly.'  That's  all,  Miss  Jones." 

She  started  to  leave,  and  then  paused,  summoning 
her  courage  to  ask  the  question  that  had  been  trembling 
on  her  lips  for  three  days. 


1 68 

"Mr.  McAdoo— " 

"Yes,  Miss  Jones  ?" 

"Is — Mr.  Remington  sick  or  away?  He  hasn't  been 
to  the  office  for  three  days." 

Bob  waited  long  enough  to  repeat  his  sardonic  grin, 
before  answering.  "No,  Miss  Jones,  Mr.  Remington 
is  not  out  of  town.  He  is,  however,  sick — love-sick 
— in  love  with  a  very  wonderful  lady.  Consequently 
he  has  no  time  either  for  his  own  business  or  for  my 
campaign — or  to  flirt  with  his  pretty  stenographer.  Is 
there  any  other  information  you  desire,  Miss  Jones?" 

Later,  looking  through  the  open  door  in  the  ante- 
room, Bob  saw  her  furtively  dabbing  a  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes.  Whereupon  he  left  his  desk  and  strode  to 
her  side.  She  tried  to  look  defiantly  up  at  him ;  the  at- 
tempt was  a  miserable  failure.  She  promptly  burst  into 
tears. 

"O,  you're  cruel !"  she  sobbed.  "I  hate  you."  Which 
was  rather  impertinent,  addressed  to  her  employer,  but 
quite  justified  under  the  circumstances. 

Bob  laughed.  "That,  Miss  Jones,  is  not  a  distinction. 
I  just  came  in  to  give  you  some  advice.  Of  course,  you 
won't  take  it.  It  is  this — don't  be  a  sentimental  fool. 
Don't  dream  impossible  dreams.  You're  healthy.  Go 
and  marry  some  plain,  healthy,  common-sense  fellow — • 
that  young  chap  across  the  hall  who  brings  you  candy, 
for  instance.  Then  you'll  be  happy." 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  any  one.  I  don't  want  to  be 
happy,"  she  stormed. 

Bob  growled,  "No,  of  course,  you  don't  want  to  be 
happy.  That  was  only  a  slip  of  the  tongue.  No  really 
sensible  person  ever  wants  to  be  happy.  That's  why  I 
advise  you  to  get  married." 


DISCONTENT  169 

Bob  went  back  to  his  office  and  sat  scowling  savagely 
at  the  papers  on  his  desk. 

"Damn  that  woman !"  he  muttered  angrily.  He  did 
not  refer  to  Miss  Jones. 

He  was  still  scowling  when  Hag-gin  appeared  half 
an  hour  later.  Haggin  wore  a  sheepish  grin. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "they  sure  did  put  the  bug  on  us  last 
night." 

"So  I've  been  told,"  Bob  remarked  dryly.  "Sit 
down." 

Haggin  sat  down  on  the  window-sill — it  was  more 
comfortable  than  Bob's  chairs — and  crossed  his  hands 
over  his  capacious  paunch. 

"That's  what  comes,"  he  vouchsafed  sagely,  "of 
tyin'  to  Democrats.  A  Democrat's  a  born  fool,  never 
knows  which  side  of  his  bread's  buttered.  No  wonder 
he  believes  in  free  trade  an'  sixteen-to-one  an'  such 
foolishness.  An'  a  Democrat  ain't  got  any  principle.  A 
Republican'll  gener'ly  stick — if  you  make  it  worth  his 
while.  But  a  Democrat — air,  hell !"  Haggin's  tone  ex- 
pressed the  very  quintessence  of  disgust. 

"Humph!"  Bob  growled.  "You've  begun  to  take 
political  speeches  seriously.  That's  a  bad  sign.  The 
trouble  is,  Tom,  even  a  Democrat  is  human.  We're  all 
alike,  with  an  eye  for  the  main  chance." 

"Sure,"  Haggin  assented  readily.  "Why  not?  But 
a  Democrat  looks  fer  the  main  chance,  as  you  say  it, 
out  of  his  blind  eye.  But  say,  Malassey's  out  there." 

"Yes."  And  Bob's  teeth  came  together  with  an 
audible  click.  "He's  been  waiting  there  some  time. 
That's  why  I  sent  for  you.  Tom,  how  much  is  he 
worth  in  the  Seventh?" 

"Well,  he's  worth  a  good  deal.     All  that  Democrat 


170         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

bunch  follow  him  like  sheep.  An'  the  Seventh  is  a 
Democrat  ward." 

"Then  you  think  he's  really  important  ?" 

"Unhuh!"  Haggin  agreed.  "Biggest  man  in  the 
ward.  Paul's  the  only  man  that  ever  could  touch  him. 
An'  even  Paul  can't  knock  sense  into  a  Democrat  when 
he  gets  set.  But  say !  You  ain't — " 

"I'm  going  to  knock  a  little  sense  into  one  Demo- 
crat." He  touched  a  button  and  Miss  Jones,  all  traces 
of  her  recent  storm  erased,  opened  the  door. 

"Miss  Jones,  will  you  ask  Malassey  to  step  in.  And, 
Miss  Jones,  if  Mr.  Remington  should  come  in,  please 
hold  him  until  I  can  see  him.  I  rely  on  you."  He 
grinned  maliciously.  Miss  Jones  tossed  her  head  and 
closed  the  door  with  a  bang  behind  Malassey. 

Malassey  was  a  type  of  the  professional  "mixer," 
a  big,  red-faced  fellow  wTith  a  bluff,  boisterous  manner 
that  passed  for  good  fellowship  among  the  undiscern- 
ing.  One  eye  was  set  slightly  lower  than  its  fellow. 
Bob  greeted  him  with  a  curt  nod  and  lolled  back  in 
his  chair.  Haggin  grimly  ignored  the  entrance  of  the 
new-comer.  Malassey  seated  himself  awkwardly  on 
the  edge  of  a  chair. 

"I'm  mighty  sorry  about  the  convention,  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo,"  he  began  eagerly.  "I — " 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Bob  interrupted  with  what  was 
geniality  itself  in  him.  "I  was  quite  sure  you  would 
feel  sorry."  Haggin  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  fit  of 
coughing.  "And  how  are  the  wife  and  babies?" 

"O,  they're  well  enough,  I  guess,"  Malassey  an- 
swered, looking  suspiciously  at  Haggin.  "But  I  guess 
you  ain't  much  interested  in  them." 

"O,  yes,  I  am,"  Bob  returned  with  excessive  polite- 


DISCONTENT  171 

ness.  "You  remember  it  was  because  of  your  difficulty 
in  feeding  and  clothing  them  that  we  had  you  promoted 
to  a  captaincy.  Naturally,  I'm  glad  to  know  the  ap- 
pointment has  turned  out  all  right.  There  are  three 
of  the  youngsters,  I  believe?" 

"No,  four  now,"  Malassey  said,  shifting  uneasily  in 
his  chair. 

"Ah !"  Bob  purred.    "That's  too  bad." 

Malassey  sighed  lugubriously.  "Yes,  one  more 
mouth  to  feed." 

"Well,  that  wasn't  exactly  my  idea.  I  meant  it's  too 
bad  another  brat  should  have  come  into  the  world  with 
the  blood  of  a  skunk  in  its  veins." 

Malassey's  red  face  blanched.  "Skunk!  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo!  After  all  I've  done —  '  he  began  reproach- 
fully. 

"Spare  us,"  Bob  interrupted,  still  preserving  his 
suave  manner.  "I'm  well  acquainted  with  the  extent 
and  nature  of  your  services.  By  the  way,  Malassey,  I 
notice  you've  lifted  that  mortgage  on  your  house." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  Malassey  answered  sulkily. 

Bob  turned  to  Haggin.  "There's  financiering  for 
you!  Six  months  on  a  salary  of  eighteen  hundred  a 
year,  feeds  a  wife  and  three — no,  four — babies,  and 
out  of  the  balance  pays  off  a  mortgage  of  one  thousand 
dollars — with  interest.  Surely,  Malassey,  you  haven't 
been  grafting?" 

Malassey's  ill-mated  eyes  darted  a  venomous  glance 
at  the  imperturbable  Bob.  "No,  you  wouldn't  give  me 
a  good  district." 

"Ah !  Speculating  then.  Why  didn't  you  let  Tom 
and  me  in  on  the  deal  ?  That  wasn't  like  you,  Malas- 
sey, to  hog  your  tip.  .What  was  the  stock  ?" 


172          THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Malassey  shuffled  uncomfortably.  "No,  I  didn't  bet 
on  no  stock." 

"Then  how—" 

"I  went  into  a  pool-room  and  laid  a  bet  on  a  horse 
at  the  New  Orleans  races." 

"I  see.  What  horse — if  I  am  not  too  inquisitive?" 
Bob  inquired  ingratiatingly. 

Malassey  hesitated,  then  said  boldly,  "Silas  T." 

"Aw,  hell !"  Haggin  snorted. 

"You  seem  disturbed,  Torn,"  Bob  suggested. 

"Left  at  the  post !"  Haggin  said  shortly. 

Bob  chuckled.  "I  see.  I  really  think  he'd  better 
hunt  another  job,  Tom." 

Malassey  sprang  to  his  feet,  pale  and  trembling. 
"Before  God!  Mr.  McAdoo,"  he  began  with  nervous 
vehemence.  "I  didn't — " 

Bob  came  sharply  upright  in  his  chair.  The  lion  had 
played  long  enough  with  its  victim. 

"Before  God !  Malassey,"  he  said  harshly,  "you  did. 
You  were  to  go  into  the  Democratic  nominating  com- 
mittee and  help  get  me  their  indorsement.  But  you 
didn't." 

"It's  a  lie,  whoever  says  it,"  Malassey  cried.  "I 
voted  for  you,  and  the  record'll  prove  it." 

"Yes,  you  voted  for  me,  wh«n  the  committee  was 
safely  against  me.  You  took  a  flier  in  double-dealing, 
Malassey.  It  has  netted  you  a  thousand  dollars  and 
that's  all.  The  mayor  expects  your  resignation  at  once. 
Good  morning,  Malassey." 

And  Malassey,  guilty  and  knowing  the  futility  of 
denial,  went  out.  Haggin  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 
"Better  throw  a  scare  into  him  an'  let  him  off  'til  after 
election.  He'll  work  like  the  devil  agin  you  now." 


DISCONTENT  173 

"No,"  Bob  said  contemptuously.  "He  would  work 
against  us  anyhow.  He  would  hate  me  because  I  found 
him  out  and  would  knife  me  under  cover.  That  kind 
always  does.  Better  have  him  openly  against  us.  Then 
we  know  just  what  he's  doing. 

"Haggin,"  he  added  abruptly,  fixing  a  keen  glance 
on  the  saloon-keeper,  "Haggin,  what's  your  price?" 

"My  price?'' 

"Yes.  We  all  seem  to  have  our  price.  What's 
yours  ?  What  will  you  sell  me  out  for  ?" 

"Aw,  g'wan!"  Haggin  answered  awkwardly. 
"You're  talkin'  through  your  hat.  Guess  you  ain't 
afraid  of  my  sellin'  you  out." 

"Why  not?" 

Haggin  stroked  his  paunch  vigorously  in  his  embar- 
rassment "Well,  I  like  your  style.  An'  you've  been 
square  with  me.  I  guess  I'll  stick  by  you,  all  right,  all 
right." 

"Even  if  I  were  to  turn  honest  and  cut  out  the 
graft?" 

"Sure.  Why  not?"  Haggin  grinned.  "I've  got 
enough.  Guess  I'll  be  goin'  before  you  git  any  more 
fool  notions  into  your  head."  And  he  went  out,  leaving 
Bob  to  study  what  seemed  to  him  a  peculiar  phenome- 
non. 

"Will  some  one  please  explain  this  mystery  of  human 
nature?"  he  addressed  himself  impatiently.  "There's 
Malassey — I  took  him  when  he  was  down  and  out, 
helped  him  get  a  home  and  bread  and  butter  for  his 
family,  and  kept  him  out  of  the  penitentiary;  and  he 
sells  me  out  for  a  thousand  dollars.  There's  Haggin — 
I  thrashed  him,  took  away  his  prestige  and  power — 
his  dearest  possessions — and  he  obeys  my  slightest  sug- 


174         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

gestion  without  a  question  and  nothing  could  buy  him 
off.     It's  beyond  me.     And  there's  Paul — : 

He  returned  to  his  work  without  completing  the 
thought. 

An  hour  later  Paul  came  in  and  threw  himself 
wearily  on  one  of  Bob's  uncomfortable  chairs. 

"Well,"  he  said  moodily,  "you  lost  that  trick." 

"I'm  not  infallible,"  Bob  returned  calmly.  "And 
they  played  this  hand  better  than  the  last  one." 

Paul  nodded.  "Yes.  But  why,  in  Heaven's  name! 
did  they  pick  out  Harland  ?  He's  a  good  man.  And 
independent.  They  can't  control  him." 

"Yes,  he's  all  that.  And  he'll  make  a  good  run, 
which  is  more  to  the  point.  He's  the  only  man  in  the 
city  who  stands  a  chance  against  us.  " 

"But  where  do  they  come  in  between  you  two?" 

Bob  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Any  port  in  a  storm. 
They  prefer  to  take  their  chances  with  him  rather  than 
with  me." 

Paul  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  to  pace  the  floor 
nervously.  "They'll  use  him  to  break  you  and  then 
they'll  break  him.  They  are  relentless — and  patient. 
It's  an  invincible  combination.  Good  God !  Bob,  what 
an  enemy  you  are  fighting!  You're  a  big  man,  but 
you're  a  pygmy  beside  them.  You've  won  out  so  far, 
but  that  is  because  they  haven't  really  taken  you  seri- 
ously. But  now  you've  taught  them  what  you  are, 
and  they  are  determined  to  crush  you." 

He  sat  down  again  dejectedly.  "Do  you  know,  I've 
a  terrible  presentiment  that  we're  going  to  lose  this 
time." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  Bob  answered  sharply.  "Of 
course,  they're  strong.  Of  course,  they're  relentless. 


DISCONTENT  175 

Did  you  suppose  they  would  sit  quietly  by  and  see  us 
walk  off  with  their  cake  ?  Did  you  suppose  they  would 
be  bowled  over  by  a  blast  of  your  eloquence  ?" 

"My  eloquence  ?    Bah !    My  weapons  hurt  nobody.'* 

"Nonsense !  At  any  rate,  lack  of  confidence  makes 
them  no  more  effective." 

Paul  resumed  his  restless  pacing.  "No,  it's  not  non- 
sense," he  declared  in  a  passion  of  despondency.  "I 
admit  I'm  completely  discouraged.  Why  shouldn't  I 
be  ?  What  am  I  ?  A  negligible  quantity,  a  brr.ying  ass 
neither  feared  nor  needed  very  much  by  any  one.  An 
insignificant  state  senator  with  the  record  of  having 
lost  more  bills  than  any  other  man  in  the  same  length 
of  time.  And  only  that  through  your  charity " 

"Charity !    Don't  be  a  fool,  man." 

"Yes,  charity !"  Paul  repeated  vehemently,  his  pas- 
sion working  upon  him.  "Six  years  ago  I  thought  I 
could  become  something  worth  while  through  my  own 
merits.  No  wonder  you  thought  me  a  presumptuous 
rattlebrain!  I'm  not  equipped  to  play  the  game  with 
you.  I'm  a  misfit.  In  your  plans  there  is  little  use  for 
my  talents.  So  I'm  overshadowed  by  you.  And  so 
long  as  we  play  the  same  game  together,  I  can  never 
be  anything  better  than  your  second  fiddle." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  care  to  help  me  out  in 
this  fight?" 

Paul  strode  to  Bob's  side  and  placed  his  hand  affec- 
tionately on  the  latter's  shoulder. 

"Now  it's  you  who  are  the  fool,"  he  said  fervidly. 
"Of  course  not,  old  man !  I'm  with  you  in  this  scrim- 
mage and  in  every  other  you  ever  go  into.  What  I 
mean  is,  while  we  are  working  out  your  plans  here  in 
the  state,  can't  I  have  the  chance  tc  work  out  mine, 


176         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

in  a  separate  field  where  I  can  act  for  myself  and  in  my 
own  way  ?  Bob,  if  you're  elected — and,  of  course,  you 
will  be,  in  spite  of  my  presentiment — why  can't  I  take 
Ger wig's  place  on  the  ticket  this  fall  and  go  to  con- 
gress?" 

Bob  shook  his  head. 

"Why  not  ?"  Paul  demanded  petulantly. 

"In  the  first  place  I  have  promised  Gerwig.  In  the 
second — " 

"You  can  get  Gerwig  to  step  aside." 

"I  can,"  Bob  said  quietly.  "But  it's  a  rule  of  mine 
to  keep  my  word  in  such  cases.  In  the  second  place, 
it  will  mean  six  years  wasted.  Here,  have  a  cigar. 
Now  sit  down  and  we'll  discuss  this  thing  rationally." 
Paul  lighted  his  cigar  and  sat  down,  puffing  nervously. 

"Now  you,"  Bob  went  on,  "have  been  four  years 
in  our  state  legislature  and  know  how  it  has  always 
danced  to  Murchell's  music." 

"Yes,  but — "  Paul  began  eagerly. 

"Save  your  'buts.'  Congress  is  Murchell's  system 
brought  to  perfection.  It  is  controlled  by  the  most 
perfect  political  machine  ever  devised.  A  half-dozen 
men  in  New  York  and  Chicago  say  what  action  shall 
or  shall  not  be  taken.  And  their  say  goes,  always! 
The  majority  may  shift  in  name  from  Republican  to 
Democrat,  but  the  financial  ring,  the  trusts,  always 
have  a  majority." 

"Then  how  a  strong  independent  would  shine  in 
such  surroundings !" 

"Yes.  That's  what  Gerwig  thought.  He's  been  in 
congress  two  terms,  and  who  ever  hears  of  him  ?  He's 
chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Ventilation  of  the 
House  Chamber !" 


DISCONTENT  177 

"O,  Gerwig !"  Paul  said  contemptuously.  "Gerwig' s 
a  fathead." 

"Yes,  Gerwig's  all  that.  And  if  all  independents 
were  like  Gerwig,  the  congressional  machine  wouldn't 
be  a  necessity.  It's  to  squelch  independents  of  force 
and  brilliancy,  like  yourself,  that  it  has  been  perfected. 
And  it  is  perfectly  effective.  There  isn't  a  genuinely 
independent  member  of  either  house  who  has  any  in- 
fluence, who  is  ever  heard  of." 

"O,  come,"  Paul  protested.  "Isn't  that  drawing  it 
rather  strong?  There  are — "  And  he  cited  several 
congressmen  whose  names  were  often  head-lined  in  the 
daily  papers. 

"Gigantic  frauds,"  Bob  growled.  "Gigantic  frauds, 
all  of  them.  And  the  people  are  beginning  to  see 
through  them.  You  go  to  congress — what  happens? 
You'll  find  yourself  shunted  off  to  one  side,  a  bushel 
basket  clapped  over  your  head,  bound,  muzzled.  I  can 
imagine  no  sadder  fate  for  you  than  to  be  muzzled." 

Paul  laughed.  "We  can  agree  on  that,  anyhow.  Go 
pn." 

"It's  worse  even  than  that.  Even  the  machine  con- 
gressman has  no  real  power.  He  must  take  his  orders 
just  as  our  legislator  must  take  orders  from  the  state 
boss.  There  aren't  a  half-dozen  men  in  both  houses 
who  hold  even  a  shadow  of  power,  and  they  have  that 
only  as  agents  for  those  back  of  them.  If  you're  con- 
tent with  being  a  figurehead,  with  having  only  the 
appearance  of  influence,  go  ahead  to  congress  and 
nonentity.  But  you  must  pay  the  price."  He  paused, 
smoking  meditatively. 

"Go  on,"  Paul  exclaimed  impatiently.  "The 
price — " 


178         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"The  only  thing  in  the  world  worth  having.  Real 
power." 

"Real  power?  I?"  Paul  laughed  almost  bitterly. 
"What  power  have  I?  How  do  people  think  of  me? 
What  have  I  been?  One  of  your  many  underlings, 
your  puppet — " 

"Stop!"  Bob  was  so  near  to  anger  that  Paul  was 
startled.  "That's  enough  of  this  old  woman's  chatter. 
You've  been  listening  to  bad  counsel.  You'd  be  a 
miserable  weakling  if  you  didn't  possess  influence,  after 
the  chances  you  have  had.  The  trouble  with  you  is 
that  things  have  come  so  easily  you  don't  realize  their 
value.  What  power  have  you  ?  You've  been  in  the  legis- 
lature four  years  and  you're  the  only  legislator  in  a 
generation  who  has  made  himself  a  force  to  be  reck- 
oned with.  You  have  never  won  an  important  battle, 
but  you  have  always  been  on  the  popular  side.  You're 
known  in  every  town  in  the  state,  as  well  as  I  am,  and 
as  a  brave,  independent,  honest  man.  The  people  believe 
in  you  and  listen  to  you.  You  may  not  know  it,  but 
Murchell  and  Dunmeade  couldn't  have  accomplished 
what  they  have  in  this  state  without  a  man  like  you  to 
take  just  your  part.  And  here  in  the  city  you've  had  a 
free  hand,  you've  been  continually  before  the  public.  In 
spite  of  your  connection  with  me,  the  public  here  be- 
lieves in  your  sincerity  and  loves  you.  Thousands  will 
do  for  you  out  of  personal  friendship  what  they  do  for 
me  only  because  it  is  to  their  advantage.  If  I  lose  my 
grip,  they'll  leave  me  instanter.  But  they'll  stick  to  you, 
so  long  as  they  continue  to  believe  in  your  sincerity  and 
independence  and  honesty,  no  matter  what  happens. 
My  puppet!  I  can't  do  without  you  now.  Power, 
man !  I'm  not  precisely  a  weakling.  If  you  want  to 


DISCONTENT  179 

know  what  power  you  have,  go  over  to  the  other  side 
and  beat  me!" 

The  petulant  discontent  on  Paul's  face  gave  way  to 
amazed,  incredulous  delight  and  pride.  "You  mean?" 
he  gasped. 

"I  mean,"  Bob  answered  quietly,  "that  without  the 
support  you  would  draw  from  me,  I  probably  couldn't 
win." 

"That  means,"  Paul  exclaimed,  "that  you,  Bob  Mc- 
Adoo,  are  in  my  hands,  to  make  or  to  break." 

"That's  true." 

Paul  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  passionate  gesture. 
"But,  after  all,  I  have  power  only  because  you  have 
given  it  to  me.  Therefore  it  is  yours.  We  will  use 
it  together,  Bob.  You've  been  a  finer  friend  than  I 
realized.  But  I  realize  it  now.  And  I  shan't  forget." 

"All  right,"  Bob  said,  shifting  uncomfortably  under 
this  demonstration.  "Then  you  give  up  this  congress 
foolishness  ?" 

"Of  course!  You're  right,  as  usual.  Six  years  ago 
I  couldn't  have  given  it  up.  Then  the  appearance 
of  importance  was  enough.  But  that  is  ended.  The 
superficial  sensationalist  is  dead  and  buried,  for  ever — 
I  hope.  Now  I  want  to  be  a  real  man,  an  original 
force.  I've  only  realized  it  lately.  That's  why  I  was 
so  discouraged  a  moment  ago ;  I  seemed  to  myself  so 
futile.  My  perception  of  values  has  grown  clearer. 
And  it  is  thanks  to  you.  When  I  said,  that  day  in  the 
convention,  that  you  have  been  the  perfect  friend,  I 
spoke  a  truer  word  than  I  knew." 

Bob  turned  from  him  to  look  out  of  the  window.  "If 
I  hadn't  thought  it  was  in  you,  I  shouldn't  have  taken 
you  up,"  he  said  gruffly.  Then  he  wheeled  sharply  on 


i8o         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Paul.  "But  is  what  you  say  true?  Is  the  sensation- 
alist put  away  for  ever?" 

Paul  flushed  painfully.  "Ah !  you  have  sounded  me 
truly — as  truly  as  a  man  can  who  is  himself  genuine 
and  clear  as  crystal.  But  you  can't  know  the  eternal 
problem  I  must  face.  You  can't  realize  how  the  habit 
of  shamming  and  posing  fixes  itself  on  one,  until  at  last 
the  poseur  himself  is  deceived,  hardly  knowing  what  he 
wants,  what  he  feels,  what  he  is.  But  this  time  it  is 
true.  I  tell  you,  it  must  be  true.  I  have  a  reason  you 
don't  know." 

"O,  yes,"  Bob  answered,  "I  know  your  reason.  If 
you're  not  careful,  that  woman  will  marry  you." 

"If  only  she  could  be  persuaded  to  do  it !  How  did 
you  guess?" 

"A  blind  man  can  read  it.  You  have  all  the  symp- 
toms of  a  man  sickeningly,  asininely  in  love.  But  don't 
do  it,  Paul.  You  say  you  want  to  be  a  real  man.  Be 
a  whole  man,  too.  Don't  do  it." 

Paul  laughed  tolerantly.  "Not  accept  supreme  hap- 
piness ?  Why  not  ?" 

"Why  not?"  Bob  exclaimed  strongly.  "Why  not 
cut  your  life  in  two?  Why  not  waste  your  strength 
on  several  objectives,  instead  of  concentrating  it  on 
one?  Why  not  become  a  slave  to  the  whims  and  needs 
of  a  wife  and  family?" 

"You  deluded  old  cynic !  You  speak  out  of  abysmal 
ignorance.  I  do  not  cut  my  life  in  two.  I  add  to  it, 
widen  it,  deepen  it.  I  do  not  waste  my  energies;  I 
gather  renewed  energy.  Enslaved!  Man,  if  to  join 
my  life  to  that  of  the  woman  I  love,  to  care  for  her 
and  protect  her,  be  slavery,  then  I  welcome  the  bonds." 


DISCONTENT  181 

"Humph !  There's  just  one  thing  more  shameful 
than  slavery.  That  is  willing  slavery." 

"Then,"  cried  Paul,  "I  am  the  most  abject  of 
slaves." 

"You  are ;  and  to  a  woman  who — " 

"Bob!    Stop!" 

And  Bob,  wondering,  paused.  For  in  the  man  be- 
fore him  he  saw,  not  Paul — Paul  the  tempestuous,  the 
dramatic,  the  somewhat  florid — but  a  stranger,  a  mo- 
mentarily inflexible,  forceful  man  who  spoke  quietly, 
without  rhetorical  flourish,  and  commandingly. 

"Bob,"  the  stranger  said  simply,  "you  and  I  have 
never  quarreled,  and  I  owe  you  too  much  to  quarrel 
with  you  now.  But  even  you  must  say  nothing  harsh 
about  Mrs.  Gilbert.  I  know  what  she  is,  a  woman  who 
has  suffered.  There  isn't  a  thing  in  her  history  to 
shame  her.  And — a  man  finds  it  hard  to  talk  of  such 
things  to  another,  but — I  love  her,  and  if  she  will  have 
me,  I  shall  marry  her.  Please  realize  that  I'm  in 
earnest  in  this,  I  think  we'd  better  not  discuss  it  any 
more."  He  quietly  left  the  office,  and  a  moment  later 
Bob  heard  him  laughing  merrily  with  Miss  Jones. 

So  Bob  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  supreme 
fact  of  the  universe.  The  Force  that  holds  the  world 
together — Love. 

"Yes,"  he  thought  bitterly.  "You're  a  real  man  now 
—for  a  while,  at  least.  That  is  no  pose.  But  you're 
not  real,  as  you  think  in  your  desire  to  be  a  force.  You 
want  that  only  to  attract  a  woman  who  won't  have 
you  for  what  you  are  yourself.  It's  in  your  love  for 
her  that  you  have  become  real.  She,  not  I,  has  made 
you  so. 

"But,"  he  added  savagely,  "she  shan't  have  you." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   GAUNTLET 

MRS.  HENRY  SANGER,  Sr.,  felt  no  compunc- 
tions when  her  machinations  resulted  in  the 
marriage  of  her  niece  to  Leonard  Gilbert.  That  he 
was  a  weakling,  a  voluptuary  within  his  means,  counted 
for  little  beside  the  fact  that  his  family  had  the  entree 
to  the  "best  circles."  To  Eleanor  herself,  taught  to 
regard  matrimony  as  a  means  to  the  widening  of  her 
social  horizon,  the  marriage  seemed  a  matter  of  course ; 
Gilbert  was  merely  a  not  unpleasant  incident.  Her 
uncle  alone,  of  all  her  intimates,  opposed  the  match. 
But  as  matrimony  was  recognized  as  within  his  wife's 
sphere  of  influence,  his  opposition  was  ineffective. 

When  Eleanor  Sanger  was  married,  she  was  a 
bright,  rather  highly  strung  and  decidedly  spoiled  girl 
of  nineteen.  Marriage  proved  a  bitter  awakening. 
Six  months,  revealing  to  her  both  in  their  own  intimate 
relations  and  in  what  she  learned  of  his  other  life  the 
weak  sensuality  of  her  husband,  sufficed  to  trans- 
form her  into  a  cold,  self-contained  woman,  of  an 
acidulous  cynicism  startling  in  one  of  her  years.  It 
was  the  weakness  of  the  man,  more  than  his  im- 
morality, that  repelled  her.  She  herself  came  of  an 
active,  sturdy  stock  whose  virility  and  power  of  resist- 

182 


THE  GAUNTLET  183 

ance  had  not  been  destroyed  by  generations  of  self- 
indulgence.  Her  experience  discovered  to  her  the 
existence  of  inherited  ideals  heretofore  dormant  in 
her.  In  the  apparent  impossibility  of  seeing  those 
ideals  realized  in  her  own  life,  she  was  becoming  bitter 
and  reckless,  when  the  incubus  on  her  life  was  suddenly 
removed,  two  years  after  her  marriage,  by  the  pistol  of 
a  jealous  Viennese  courtezan. 

Her  experience  immediately  following  Gilbert's  mur- 
der must  have  hardened  or  broken  the  spirit  of  any 
woman.  For  two  weeks  she  lived  as  in  a  nightmare. 
Practically  without  acquaintances  in  the  Austrian  cap- 
ital, whither  she  had  been  carried  by  one  of  her  hus- 
band's caprices,  she  was  compelled  to  bear  alone  the 
burden  of  the  squalid  tragedy  and  its  attendant  noto- 
riety. When  her  uncle  reached  her,  he  found  a  stony- 
eyed,  icy  woman  who  laughed  bitterly  at  his  proffered 
sympathy  but  acquiesced  indifferently  in  whatever  he 
proposed. 

Then  he  atoned  in  part  for  his  unwise  guidance  of 
her  youth.  The  management  of  his  great  business 
interests  he  placed  in  the  competent  hands  of  Henry 
Sanger,  Jr.,  Eleanor's  brother,  and  devoted  himself 
entirely  to  her.  For  three  years  they  traveled  as  her 
whims  dictated.  Mr.  Sanger,  anxiously  watching,  saw 
-the  natural  resiliency  of  youth  gradually  breaking- 
down  her  hardness  of  spirit.  In  time  the  unwholesome 
effects  of  her  married  life  disappeared,  save  a  slight 
superficial  cynicism  and  restlessness  of  spirit  which 
made  mental  excitement  a  necessity  to  her.  At  twenty- 
five  she  was  a  brilliant,  self-contained  woman,  with  a 
taste  for  the  unconventional  which  was  not  the  least 
of  her  charms.  Selfish  she  remained,  as  was  the  logical 


1 84         THE  MAN  HIGHER,  UP 

result  of  a  lack  of  definite  purpose  in  life  other  than  to 
amuse  herself  and  to  forget. 

Then  Mr.  Sanger  died,  leaving  the1  bulk  of  his  for- 
tune to  Henry  Sanger,  Jr.,  to  Eleanor  a  comparative 
pittance.  This  curtailment  of  her  inheritance  was  at 
her  request.  A  quiet  year  in  Germany,  spent  studying 
music,  followed,  and  then  she  returned  to  the  Steel  City 
— to  play  her  part  in  the  making  of  Robert  McAdoo. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  the  day  of  Bob's  talk  with 
Paul  concerning  her,  Mrs.  Gilbert  sat  before  a  luxuri- 
ous log  fire  in  her  own  particular  den.  In  a  box  by  her 
side  was  an  armful  of  roses,  which  she  was  arranging 
in  a  huge  glass  bowl.  When  the  roses  were  bestowed  to 
her  satisfaction  she  re-read  the  note  that  had  accom- 
panied them,  smiling  at  some  sentiment  expressed  by 
the  writer. 

"You  poor,  romantic  boy!"  she  said  aloud.  "One 
expects  every  minute  that  your  conversation  and  letters 
will  break  into  blank  verse.  I  wish — I  don't  know 
what  I  wish,"  she  concluded  resentfully.  She  arose 
from  her  comfortable  seat  before  the  glowing  logs 
and  went  to  a  window,  where  she  stood  gazing  dis- 
contentedly out  on  the  snowy  lawn  and  street. 

"That  is  what  makes  life  such  a  jumble  for  me," 
she  continued,  her  gaze  becoming  very  wistful.  "I 
don't  know  what  I  want,  but  whatever  it  is,  it's  fairly 
certain  that  I  can't  have  it.  I  should  never  have  come 
back  to  this  city,  where  I  have  no  interests.  Just  as 
I  thought  I  had  achieved  content,  I  meet  two  men — 
absolutely  out  of  my  sphere.  And  the  one  stirs  up  the 
old,  uncertain  longings,  which  he  can't  satisfy.  And 
the  other  stirs  up  the  old,  wicked  recklessness  that  I 
had  thought  dead  for  ever."  She  sighed  impatiently. 


THE  GAUNTLET  185 

A  half  hour  later  she  was  still  by  the  window,  her 
eyes  mechanically  following  the  figure  of  a  man  walk- 
ing up  the  street.  When  the  pedestrian  came  to  the 
Sanger  entrance,  he  turned  in  and  walked  with  swift, 
decided  steps  toward  the  house.  Then  Eleanor  recog- 
nized him. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped  in  astonishment  and  with  a  hint 
of  dismay  in  her  voice.  She  hastily  left  the  window 
and  crossed  to  the  fireplace  where  she  stood,  her  foot 
beating  an  impatient  tattoo  on  the  hearth,  until  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  the  butler  entered. 

"Mr.  McAdoo  to  see  you,  madam." 

"Show  Mr.  McAdoo  into  the  library,  Thomas,"  she 
replied,  after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "And  I  shall  not 
be  at  home  the  rest  of  the  afternoon." 

Why  had  Bob  come  to  see  Mrs.  Gilbert  ?  Bob  him- 
self was  trying  to  answer  the  same  question.  When 
Paul  left  him  in  the  morning,  all  Bob's  old,  primitive 
egoism  welled  up  within  him  in  a  flood  of  savage 
resentment  against  the  woman  who  had  come  into 
Paul's  life,  into  both  their  lives.  From  the  thing  that 
stared  him  in  the  face — the  hold  his  friendship  for 
Paul  had  taken  on  his  own  life — he  doggedly  turned 
away  his  eyes.  Blindly  he  felt  that  one  of  his  posses- 
sions was  threatened  and  that  he  must  fight  with  a 
woman  for  supremacy  over  Paul.  And  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  Bob  doubted  the  outcome.  He  must 
meet  weapons  whose  edge  he  had  never  felt.  More- 
over, he  knew  nothing  of  the  skill  and  spirit  of  his  ad- 
versary, other  than  the  significant  fact  that  in  two 
weeks  she  had  shaken  the  hold  he  had  needed  six  years 
to  gain ;  and  that  other  fact,  even  more  significant,  of 
a  certain  memory  which  he  had  never  been  able  to  cast 


1 86         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

out  of  mind  or  heart.  The  fighter's  instinct  to  know 
his  adversary  gave  the  impulse  that  carried  him  to  the 
Sanger  library. 

He  heard  the  swish  of  skirts  in  the  hall  and  rose  to 
meet  the  enemy.  It  would  not  be  accurate  to  say  that 
Bob's  heart  went  one  beat  faster,  but  he  experienced 
a  faint  thrill  of  excitement,  nevertheless.  He  had  felt 
the  same  sensation  once  before.  He  smiled,  as  memory 
recalled  that  other  time,  in  Haggin's  saloon,  when  he 
faced  the  bully  to  fight  him  for  the  supremacy  over  a 
ward. 

The  portieres  were  parted  and  she  stood  before  him. 
Bob  realized  resentfully  that  here  was  a  very  beautiful 
woman,  far  more  beautiful  than  either  Kathleen  Flinn 
or  Mrs.  Dunmeade,  the  only  women  of  finer  type  he 
knew.  For  the  fraction  of  a  second,  while  she  paused 
on  the  threshold,  there  was  the  same  fencing  of  glances 
with  which  they  had  met  in  the  theater — the  adver- 
saries' salute.  Then  her  eyes  softened  to  an  amused 
gleam.  While  Bob  stood  still,  she  went  over  to  him. 

"I've  been  trying  to  decide  whether  this  is  a  pleasant 
or  unpleasant  surprise,"  she  smiled  quizzically. 
"Which  is  it?"  She  held  out  her  hand. 

Bob  looked  at  the  outstretched  hand,  and  shook  his 
head  coldly.  The  hand  was  at  once  returned  to  her 
side. 

"You  persist  in  the  hostile  attitude?1' 

"Why  not  ?  Let  us  have  no  false  pretenses.  I  dislike 
you,  you  dislike  me.  If  we  stick  to  that,  it  will  simplify 
matters." 

She  smiled  again.  "I  ought  to  snub  you  by  saying 
that  I'm  really  totally  indifferent  to  you.  Only  I  fear 
the  snub  would  be  wasted  on  you." 


THE  GAUNTLET  187 

"And  it  wouldn't  be  true." 

"How  do  you  know  I  don't  like  you?"  The 
amused  gleam  in  her  eyes  deepened. 

"God  forbid!"  he  ejaculated  involuntarily.  "But," 
he  added  grimly,  "there's  no  danger." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  she  warned  him  in  gay 
malice.  "You  know,  nothing  wins  a  woman's  liking 
so  quickly  as  resistance.  If  you're  not  careful,  I  may 
end  by  liking  you.  That  would  be  a  terrible  predica- 
ment— if  we're  to  be  enemies." 

"It  would!" 

"Yes,  for  you,"  she  flashed  back.  "Because  then  I 
should  have  to  make  you  like  me.  But  don't  be  nervous. 
I  shan't  try.  You're  more  interesting  as — you  are." 

"I  am  relieved."  She  noted  with  surprise  that  his 
ironical  bow  was  easy  and  not  ungraceful. 

She  laughed.  "Come,  I  see  your  call  is  to  be  a  pleas- 
ant surprise,  after  all.  But  won't  you  sit  down  ?  Since 
we're  to  be  enemies,  we  may  as  well  be  comfortably  so. 
No,  not  that  chair — the  one  across  the  table;  it  matches 
your  bigness  better." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "Do  you  know,  for 
just  a  moment  I  was  almost  persuaded  not  to  be  at 
home  to  you  this  afternoon." 

"I'd  have  stayed  until  you  changed  your  mind,  Mrs. 
Gilbert.  I  saw  you  at  the  window." 

"In  spite  of  my  wish?" 

He  nodded.  "There  are  some  things  which  need 
thrashing  out  between  us." 

"Do  the  laws  of  courtesy  mean  so  little  to  you?  I 
suppose,  though,"  she  added  in  smiling  insolence,  "that 
men  of  your  sort  are  insensible  to  these  finer  consider- 
ations." 


1 88         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Men  of  my  sort,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  are  apt  to  find  that 
courtesy  is  demanded  from  them  more  often  than  it  is 
extended  to  them.  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should 
fear  to  displease  you?" 

"There  have  been  men  who  feared  to  displease  me, 
Mr.  McAdoo."  Then  she  flushed  with  annoyance  that 
she  had  boasted. 

"I've  no  doubt  there  are  such  men."  And  Bob's  tone 
did  not  convey  a  high  tribute  to  the  class.  "But  I 
don't  happen  to  be  one  of  them." 

"Nor  am  I  afraid  of  you,  Mr.  McAdoo,"  she  coun- 
tered. "I  was,  for  one  moment,  that  day  in  the  theater. 
You  startled  me,  having  caught  me — " 

"Having  caught  you  in  a  contemptible  act,"  he  inter- 
rupted quietly.  "Trying  to  cast  doubt  upon  the  sin- 
cerity of  a  man  who  was  a  total  stranger  to  you.  That 
is  what  is  called  malicious  mischief." 

The  amused  gleam  died  out  of  her  eyes.  She  flushed 
angrily.  The  anger  was  against  herself. 

"And  have  you  never  been  guilty  of  malicious  mis- 
chief?" she  said  coldly. 

"That's  not  much  of  a  defense,  Mrs.  Gilbert  And 
it  doesn't  hit  me.  I  have  never  done  mischief  for  mis- 
chief's sake." 

"Nor  have  I,"  she  defended  herself  warmly.  "You 
were  not  a  total  stranger  to  me — " 

"Ah!  then  you  remember?"  he  exclaimed,  surprised. 

She  compelled  herself  to  answer  coolly.  "I  remem- 
ber what  I  have  heard  of  you,  if  that  is  what  you  mean ; 
what  you  are,  what  you  have  done.  And  I  saw  you  in 
the  convention.  I  have  a  constitutional  antipathy  for 
men  of  your  type,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

"People  don't  do  that  sort  of  thing  merely  because  of 


THE  GAUNTLET  189 

constitutional  antipathy."  He  shifted  his  chair  and, 
leaning  on  the  table,  looked  straight  at  her. 

"You  may  put  it  on  the  score  of  personal  dislike,  if 
you  choose,"  she  answered  indifferently.  "You  know," 
the  lurking  smile  reappeared  in  her  eyes,  "you  insisted 
that  I  dislike  you." 

"That  explains  it,  but  doesn't  excuse  it,"  he  said, 
still  in  his  quiet,  even  tone.  "I've  no  objections  to  your 
dislike.  It's  probably  very  natural.  I'm  used  to  it. 
But  it  gave  you  no  right  to  meddle  in  my  affairs.  I 
had  done  nothing  to  harm  you.  You  had  nothing  to 
gain  by  attacking  my  motives — of  which  you  could 
know  nothing — or  by  making  Paul  Remington  discon- 
tented with  his  advancement — as  you  have  persisted  in 
doing  since.  The  women  I  know  don't  do  that  sort  of 
thing.  Even  men  of  my  sort,  whom  you  despise" — 
there  was  a  trace  of  bitterness  in  these  last  words — 
"would  call  it  contemptible." 

He  is  a  wise  general  who  knows  when  to  abandon 
an  untenable  position.  Eleanor  suddenly  abandoned 
hers.  She  turned  and,  leaning  on  the  table,  faced  him 
frankly. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said  quietly.  "It  was  con- 
temptible. And  I  have  been  ashamed  of  myself  ever 
since.  I  was  ashamed  when  you  caught  me  at  it.  I 
had  seen  you  in  the  convention.  Your  utter  composure 
irritated  me  unreasonably.  Besides  I  had  heard  of  you 
before.  What  I  heard  wasn't  altogether  to  your  credit, 
perhaps  not  altogether  just.  I  yielded  to  an  impulse, 
and  meddled  gratuitously  in  your  affairs.  I  had  no 
right  to  do  it,  no  excuse.  I  apologize." 

If  she  intended  her  apology  to  mollify  him,  she  failed. 
It  had  the  opposite  effect.  He  resented  her  frankness. 


1 90         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

He  resented  the  moral  courage  which  enabled  her  hon- 
estly to  acknowledge  her  fault.  It  angered  him  that 
she  should  put  herself  in  the  right,  because  it  took 
away,  in  part  at  least,  his  excuse  for  hostility.  Bob  felt 
the  need  of  an  excuse  for  hating  and  hurting  her. 

An  ugly  sneer  twisted  his  mouth,  as  he  replied.  "It's 
easy  enough  to  apologize,  but  what  good  is  it  after  the 
mischief  is  done." 

"I  hardly  expected  you  to  be  generous,"  she  an- 
swered his  sneer  gravely.  "But  now — what?  You 
didn't  come  here  merely  to  convict  me  of  a  dishonorable 
act,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Hardly.  I'm  a  busy  man.  I  suppose  I  came  to 
make  a  useless  request." 

"What  is  the  request — or  is  it  a  command?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  minute  before  he 
answered.  She  saw  the  line  of  his  lips  become  thinner 
and  the  muscles  of  his  jaw  tighten.  "To  let  Paul  Rem- 
ington go." 

"You  take  too  much  for  granted.  I'm  not  holding 
him.  He  is  free  to  go  wherever  he  chooses." 

"That's  not  true.  He  has  the  misfortune  to  be  in 
love  with  you.  Therefore  he  is  your  slave." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  skeptically.  "It  will  do 
him  no  harm.  And  he  will  get  over  it." 

"He  shall  get  over  it.  And  it  does  hurt  him.  It 
harms  any  man  to  be  played  with  by  a  pretty  woman." 

"Ah !  But  suppose  I  shouldn't  be  that  sort  of  woman, 
suppose  I  should  become  interested  in  him?" 

"You  will  not,  because  you  are  that  sort  of  woman. 
But  it  would  make  no  difference  anyhow.  It  would 
still  do  him  harm." 

"It  seems,"  she  replied  mockingly,  "that  Mr.  Me- 


THE  GAUNTLET  191 

Adoo,  in  spite  of  his  boasted  frendship,  cares  nothing 
for  the  happiness  of  his  friend." 

"Your  interest  doesn't  necessarily  mean  his  happi- 
ness, does  it?" 

"My  interest  isn't  to  be  despised,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

"Despised?  No.  But  feared — yes.  It  would  be  a 
dangerous  luxury,  Mrs.  Gilbert." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  up  at  him 
with  an  irritating,  insolent  smile.  "Dangerous,  Mr. 
McAdoo?  To  whom?  To  him — or  to  you?" 

"To  him!" 

She  laughed  skeptically. 

Bob's  brow  knitted  in  a  troubled,  angry  frown.  This 
beautiful  woman,  whose  life  and  standards  were  the 
very  antitheses  of  his,  in  whose  spirit  was  a  quality  that 
seemed  to  mock  his  worshiped  strength,  who  had  the 
power  to  arouse  what  his  most  dangerous  political  foes 
had  never  been  able  to  stir  within  him — strong  personal 
enmity — was  a  mystery  to  him.  Her  laugh  impeached 
his  strength.  It  convicted  him  of  fear — fear  of  a  woman 
whom  he  could  crush  with  his  hands,  but  whose 
inner  life  he  was  powerless  to  reach !  It  put  upon  him 
the  strange,  unaccustomed  necessity  of  defending,  jus- 
tifying himself  to  her.  His  hands  gripped  the  edge  of 
the  table  fiercely. 

"You  won't  understand,"  he  said  at  last,  slowly, 
"when  I  explain  it.  You're  right  when  you  say  I  care 
nothing  for  his  happiness — at  least,  what  you  mean  by 
the  word.  You  don't  mean  happiness,  Mrs.  Gilbert. 
You  mean — to  glut  the  appetite,  to  yield  to  the  mating 
instinct,  to  follow  the  lines  of  least  resistance.  Only 
the  very  strong  can  afford  happiness  as  you  mean  it. 
To  a  weak  man  that  sort  of  'happiness'  means  crippling 


192          THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

his  natural  force,  enslaving  himself  to  outside  influ- 
ences. There  is  only  one  true  happiness — the  content 
that  comes  from  being  a  real,  original  force.  The 
man  who  would  be  this,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  must  own  and 
control  himself  absolutely.  For  Paul  Remington's 
greater,  true  happiness  I  do  care." 

For  a  minute  she  studied  him  in  silence,  frankly  and 
intently.  Then  she  laughed.  "I  had  no  idea  you  could 
talk  so  well." 

"Humph !"  he  growled,  struggling  to  control  his  ris- 
ing anger.  "Any  one  can  learn  to  talk.  It  takes  brains 
to  learn  silence." 

"A  maker  of  epigrams !  And  a  philosopher,  too !  I 
have  read  somewhere  that  philosophy  is  the  refuge  of 
the  loser.  But  you're  a  chronic  \vinner." 

"Doesn't  that  prove  that  my  philosophy  isn't  to  be 
ridiculed  ?" 

"The  philosophy  of  a  successful  man  is  always  to  be 
taken  seriously.  I  wasn't  laughing  at  what  you  said, 
but  at  my  first  notion  of  you.  Decidedly  I  must  revise 
it.  Only  you  haven't  been  as  inexorable  with  yourself 
as  you  \vould  like  to  be  with  Mr.  Remington." 

"But  I  have!"  he  contradicted.  "I'm  a  primitive 
man,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  with  all  the  elemental  passions  and 
weaknesses.  But  I  haven't  been  a  slave  to  my  weak- 
nesses. Do  you  suppose  I  don't  tire  of  the  unceasing 
grind?  I  haven't  had  one  day's  rest  from  work  in 
twenty-one  years.  The  physical  appetites  are  as  strong 
in  me  as  in  other  men.  I  have  lived  a  clean  physical 
life.  I,  too,  am  capable  of  dreaming  of  ideal  women. 
I  have  refused  to  allow  the  mating  instinct  to  influ- 
ence me.  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  possess  the  lazy 
instinct  for  peace?  I  have  never  hesitated  to  make  an 


THE  GAUNTLET  193 

enemy.  You  boasted  that  men  have  feared  to  displease 
you.  I  could  make  a  finer  boast,  because  I  have  been 
inexorable  with  myself.  Men  fear  you  because  you 
appeal  to  their  weaknesses.  They  fear  me  because  I 
have  made  myself  strong." 

"You're  inconsistent — if  what  you  say  is  true.  You 
have  proclaimed  yourself  Mr.  Remington's  friend." 

"You're  like  the  rest,"  he  cried  in  angry  defensive- 
ness.  "You  think  I  became  his  friend  because  I 
couldn't  resist  his  fascination.  I  do  feel  the  personal 
attraction  for  him,  but  I  could  have  overcome  that.  It 
doesn't  control  me.  I  accepted  his  friendship  because 
I  saw  in  him  natural  force,  that  he  couldn't  realize  him- 
self, but  which  I  could  realize  for  him." 

"In  other  words,  you  accepted  his  friendship  that 
you  might  experiment  with  your  'forcefulness'  upon 
him.  And  to  carry  your  experiment  through  you  force 
upon  him,  too,  your  ascetic,  stoic  selfishness — if  that 
isn't  a  paradox.  I'm  frankly  a  selfish  woman,  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo,  but  beside  you  I'm  an  angel  of  mercy — if  what 
you  say  is  true.  But  what  right  have  you  to  say  that  he 
shan't  be  happy  in  his  own  way  ?" 

"Because  I  give  him  something  better.  I  found  him 
a  man  of  possibilities.  I  make  him  a  man  of  realized 
possibilities.  He  was  a  dreamer.  He  is  learning  to 
make  his  dreams  come  true.  He  possessed  energy.  He 
is  learning  to  control  and  apply  it.  He  was  superficial, 
a  creature  of  appetites.  He  is  becoming  a  man  of  deep 
purpose.  He  is  learning  to  seek  and  acquire  the  sub- 
stance of  things.  He  was  a  play-actor.  He  will  become 
a  real  man." 

"Or  another  Robert  McAdoo  ?  It  would  be  a  charity 
to  save  him  from  such  a  fate — if  what  you  say  is  true." 


i94         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"That's  the  third  time  for  that  phrase.  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"If  you're  not  merely  trying  to  hide  from  yourself 
the  fact  that  you  have  been  what  you  call  weak.  If 
you're  not  making  your  inexorable  philosophy  a  mask 
for  your  fear  that  some  woman  will  win  a  stronger 
hold  over  him  than  you  have." 

"It  isn't  some  woman  whose  influence  I  object  to. 
It  is  you" 

"That  proves  it,"  she  smiled  triumphantly.  "Your 
crude  philosophy  is  only  a  shallow  excuse  for  what  is 
really  the  pettiest  of  weakness." 

"That  is  not  true." 

"And  you  know  it  yourself.  That's  why  you're  so 
angry  at  my  statement  But,"  she  added  carelessly, 
"it  doesn't  matter  much,  whether  it  is  true  or  false. 
The  point  of  this  argument  is  that  you  come  to  me, 
whom  you  profoundly  dislike,  and  ask  me  to  send  Paul 
Remington  away.  You  give  as  your  excuse  for  this, 
that  you  care  nothing  for  his  happiness.  And  you  ex- 
pect me  to  adopt  the  same  inhuman  philosophy  as  my 
reason.  But  what  about  me?" 

"He  is  nothing  to  you." 

"As  you  mean  it,  no — just  now.  But  for  the  future 
— why  not?  You  never  can  tell.  Mr.  Remington  is 
talented.  He  is  magnetic.  I  like  him  better  than  I 
like  most  men.  It  is  quite  possible  that  I  shall  in  time 
develop  a  deeper  interest  in  him.  And  besides,  Mr. 
McAdoo,  your  opposition  gives  him  a  new  value.  Did 
you  forget  to  consider,  when  you  came  to  ask  me  to 
send  him  away,  what  about  my  happiness?"  She  con- 
cluded her  question  with  a  smile. 


THE  GAUNTLET  195 

"Mrs.  Gilbert,  your  happiness  did  not — does  not — 
enter  into  my  calculations  at  all." 

"You're  honest,  at  least.  Still  I  am  a  human  being 
and,  one  would  think,  my  possible  happiness  shouldn't 
be  wholly  ignored.  Why  did  you  come  to  see  me  ?" 

Bob  did  not  answer  at  once.  When  he  did,  his  voice 
had  resumed  the  even,  matter-of-fact  tone  that  he  used 
in  ordinary  conversation. 

"Can  we  explain  our  impulses  ?  It  was  on  impulse. 
I  never  yet  yielded  to  an  impulse  but  I  regretted  it 
afterward.  Explain  it  as  you  choose — I  don't  want 
him  under  your  influence.  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of 
begging.  But  it  occurred  to  me  to  come  and  ask  you 
to  send  him  away — he  won't  leave  you  of  his  own  ac- 
cord— and  I  came.  That  is  all.  It  was  very  foolish." 

He  rose  to  leave,  but  she  stayed  him.  "Wait,  please. 
This  has  been  a  very  unusual  conversation,  and  we  may 
as  well  finish  it  whi'j  v/e  have  the  opportunity.  We 
aren't  likely  to  meet  again — at  least,  we  both  hope  so." 
She  smiled  faintly.  "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

Bob  sat  down  and  silently  awaited  what  she  had  to 
say.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the  back  of  her  chair, 
turning  her  eyes  from  Bob  to  look  wistfully  into  the 
fire. 

"Mr.  McAdoo,"  she  began,  still  gazing  into  the  fire, 
"that  was  the  first  sensible  thing  you  have  said  to 
me,  because  you  said  it  without  deliberate  intention 
to  hurt  me.  Both  times  we  have  met,  we  have  suc- 
ceeded in  striking  the  antagonistic  note.  We  seem 
fated  to  dislike  each  other.  We  can't  explain  it  and 
we  can't  help  it,  I  suppose.  But  I'm  going  to  be  honest 
with  you." 


196         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

She  paused,  as  though  uncertain  how  to  continue. 
Winter's  early  dusk  was  falling  outside,  leaving  only 
the  firelight  to  light  the  room.  She  was  very  beautiful, 
as  the  soft  glow  fell  upon  her  face. 

"We're  a  good  deal  alike,  you  and  I.  You  have  taken 
everything  you  want.  I've  been  given  everything — ex- 
cept the  things  that  count  most.  We're  both  very  self- 
ish. You  make  the  excuse  that  you  have  to  be  selfish  to 
realize  your  ambitions.  I  have  the  excuse  that  life 
hasn't  treated  me  very  kindly — and  neither  excuse  is 
valid,  I  suspect.  You're  not  a  slave  to  conscience,  and  I 
— well,  I'm  afraid  I'll  never  let  conscience  stand  be- 
tween me  and  happiness.  You  have  few  friends.  I've 
had  plenty  to  admire  me  because  I'm  not  bad  to  look  at 
and  can  turn  a  witty  phrase  occasionally.  But  none  has 
ever  cared  for  me  because  none  saw  in  me  those  wom- 
anly qualities  which  are  so  much  finer  than  beauty  or 
wit.  Paul  Remington  seems  to  fill  both  our  wants.  He 
is  your  one  friend.  He  cares  for  me  because  he  thinks  I 
possess  qualities  I  don't  possess,  but  which  he — he 
makes  me  want  to  acquire.  I'm  not  in  love  with  him, 
but  I'd  like  to  be.  He  seems  my  only  hope  of  escape 
from  becoming  the  most  pitiable  of  creatures — a  lonely, 
cynical,  selfish,  loveless  woman.  I  wonder  why  I  tell 
you  this?"  She  leaned  forward  abruptly.  "What  are 
we  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"That  is  what  I  came  to  find  out." 

"No,  you  came  to  tell  me  what  I  must  do.  You 
put  the  issue  squarely;  one  of  us  must  retire  in  the 
other's  favor.  That  amounts  to  a  challenge,  doesn't 
it  ?  It's  too  bad  we  have  this  dislike  to  contend  with. 
Your  natural  state  is  fighting,  and  I  suppose  you  don't 
mind  one  fight  the  more.  But  I  don't  want  to  fight  for 


THE  GAUNTLET  197 

my  happiness — or  possible  happiness.  Especially  when 
I  run  the  risk  of  losing  it  altogether.  We  both  run  that 
risk.  Don't  you  think,"  there  was  the  faintest  twinkle 
in  her  eyes,  "don't  you  think  it  would  be  wise — don't 
you  think  it  would  be  good  politics — to  ignore  our  dis- 
like— and  share  the  spoils  ?" 

"No."  But  despite  the  curtness  of  his  reply,  she 
thought  she  detected  a  relaxing  of  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"I  believe  he  has  a  sense  of  humor,  after  all,"  she 
thought.  "Can  we  afford  the  risk?"  she  said  aloud, 
pressing  home  her  fancied  advantage. 

"I  can't  afford  not  to  take  the  risk." 

"You  are  implacable.  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  beg- 
ging men  not  to  be  my  enemies,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

"Is  this  the  way  you  twist  Remington  around  your 
finger?" 

Her  gasp  of  astonishment,  if  simulated,  was  a  fine 
bit  of  acting.  "Do  you  think — do  you  for  an  instant 
dream — that  I'm  tempting  you  to  forget  your  dislike 
Of  me?" 

"Trying  to  tempt  me." 

For  answer  she  burst  into  a  delicious,  girlish  laugh. 
"O,  I'm  glad  you  came.  I  haven't  had  so  much  fun 
since  I  was  a  girl." 

"So  you  take  it  as  a  joke?" 

She  nodded  gaily,  still  laughing. 

"I  think  I  should  have  done  better  to  let  you  die  in 
the  mills." 

This  time  her  look  of  bewilderment  was  genuine. 
"I  don't  understand — why! — " 

For  an  instant  the  luxurious,  firelit  library  faded 
away  from  her  sight.  She  stood  amid  the  grime  and 


198         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

roar  of  the  mills.  .  .  .  She  felt  herself  caught  in  an 
iron  grasp  which  dragged  her  toward  death.  .  .  . 
Then  a  strong  hand  seized  her,  and  she  stood  before  a 
hot-eyed  young  giant  .  .  . 

"Is  it  possible?  Yes,  you  are  the  man  who  saved  me 
in  the  mills.  It  is  hard  to  realize.  He  was  an  uncouth, 
ungrammatical  young  ruffian,  as  I  remember,  while 
you — you  are  an  educated — "  She  hesitated. 

"An  educated  ruffian,"  he  concluded  dryly. 

"It  is  you  who  say  it,  not  I,"  she  answered  quickly, 
with  a  smile.  "But  I  can  hardly  realize  it  yet.  That 
was — let  me  see — yes,  eleven  years  ago.  Eleven  years ! 
And  in  that  time  you  have  risen  from  a  common  work- 
man to  the  great  political  leader — or  boss.  I  knew  in 
a  general  way,  of  course,  that  you  had  risen  from  ob- 
scurity to  your  present  prominence,  but  I  never  quite 
realized  what  it  meant.  It  is  really  remarkable.  I  con- 
gratulate you." 

She  regarded  him  with  a  new  respect:  a  respect 
which  Bob,  remembering  the  girl  who  had  flouted  him 
as  of  a  lower  order  of  creation,  resented. 

"I'm  no  more  than  I  was  then.  I  have  more,  but  I 
am  no  more." 

"Yes,  that  is  true.  What  you  are  now  was  in  you 
then.  You  have  only  grown,  bigger  and  stronger,  but 
not  different.  More's  the  pity !"  she  added  mockingly. 
" — Perhaps?"'  To  which  Bob  made  no  answer. 

A  detail  of  the  scene  in  the  mills  recurred  to  her. 
"Ah !  I  remember  that  I  forgot  to  thank  you  for  saving 
my  life.  That  was  very  ungrateful.  I  suppose  I  should 
do  so  now.  It  really  was  very  good  of  you." 

"You  needn't  thank  me.  Besides,"  he  added  grimly, 


THE  GAUNTLET  199 

"it  was  unintentional,  I  assure  you.  Purely  an  im- 
pulse." 

"And  you  always  regret  your  impulses,  I  believe." 

"Well — "  he  hesitated.     "Not  always — quite." 

She  laughed  uncertainly.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
that,  I  wonder  ? — But  I  must  revise  my  estimate  of  the 
situation.  It  is  quite  wonderful — more  so  than  your 
rapid  rise — our  meeting  again  in  this  way.  But  surely 
you  can't  expect  me  to  remain  at  swords'  points  with 
the  man  who  saved  my  life?" 

His  face  hardened.  "Then  keep  out  of  my  way." 

Again  she  studied  his  set  face  frankly,  searchingly. 
"You  mean  it,"  she  said  in  a  curiously  regretful  tone. 
"That  is  part  of  you.  I  remember  you  said  the  same  to 
me  that  night  in  the  mills.  'Keep  out  of  my  way.'  It 
explains  your  life,  doesn't  it  ?  You  have  gone  steadily, 
relentlessly  forward,  brushing  aside  every  one  who 
stood  in  your  way.  And  now  that  I  seem  to  interfere 
with  your  plans,  you  are  quite  capable  of  sweeping  me 
aside — or  Mr.  Remington  either — without  thought  of 
what  it  means  to  us.  You  are  relentless !" 

"Then  will  you  keep  out  of  my  way  ?" 

"Don't,  please.  Threats  aren't  nice.  You're  quite 
sure  there  is  no  peaceable  solution  ?" 

"Quite." 

"And  you  refuse  absolutely  to  consider  me  in  the 
matter  ?" 

"It  amounts  to  that,  I  suppose." 

She  twisted  and  untwisted  her  handkerchief  for  a 
moment,  staring  reflectively  at  the  operation.  Then 
she  turned  to  face  him  again.  "Suppose,"  she  asked 
slowly,  "suppose  I  were  to  send  him  away,  would  you 


200         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

take  it  as  a  mark  of  gratitude  for  saving  my  life,  as  a 
favor  to  you?" 

Bob  hesitated.  After  all,  it  was  the  easiest  solution ; 
and  sometimes  concession  is  victory.  .  .  .  And  she  was 
very  beautiful,  very  alluring,  so  far  out  of  his  reach. 
With  a  pang  he  realized  that  the  promise  of  the  girl 
in  the  mills  had  borne  fruit,  that  this  fair  woman,  child 
of  privilege  as  she  was,  possessed  a  fine  courage  and 
self-reliance  against  which  his  own  crude  strength 
might  hurl  itself  in  vain — and  that  he  could  never  beat 
her  at  the  game  he  proposed.  He  yielded  to  her  a  re- 
luctant admiration.  .  .  .  With  an  effort  he  recalled 
his  resentment  against  her  and  the  old  prideful  belief  in 
his  self-sufficiency. 

"No!  You  owe  me  nothing,  and  I  want  no  favors 
from  you." 

"Can't  you  see,"  she  urged  alluringly,  "I'm  holding 
out  the  olive  branch?  Haven't  you  enough  enemies, 
Mr.  McAdoo  ?  Remember  that  one  more  than  enough 
is  as  strong  as  an  army." 

"No !  I  don't  want  peace  with  you." 

They  both  rose,  Mrs.  Gilbert  facing  him  with  a  laugh 
in  her  eyes. 

"So  be  it !"  she  said  pleasantly.  "I  must  accept  your 
hostility.  You  pay  me  a  fine  compliment,  Mr.  McAdoo. 
And  do  you  realize  what  a  weapon  you  have  placed  in 
my  hands?  I'm  not  deceived  by  your  unnatural  phil- 
osophy, nor  are  you  now,  I  think.  The  truth  is,  you're 
jealous,  jealous  as  a  school-girl,  Mr.  McAdoo.  And 
afraid — of  me.  I  can  be  a  very  dangerous  enemy — if 
I  choose.  If  I  should  choose  to  accept  your  challenge 
and  to  take  away  from  you  your  dearest  possession — 
your  happiness,  Mr.  McAdoo — you  would  be  helpless 


THE  GAUNTLET  201 

to  prevent  it.  You  have  no  weapons  to  fight  me.  And 
you  know  it!  Else,  why  are  you  here  to-day?"  She 
laughed. 

"I  wish  to  God,"  he  cried  bitterly,  "I  had  let  you  die 
in  the  mills !" 

Smiling,  she  watched  him  turn  and  leave  her.  Then 
she  sat  down  before  the  fire,  looking  into  its  flames 
with  amused  eyes.  The  gleam  of  amusement  faded 
into  reflectiveness,  reflectiveness  into  wistfulness.  She 
sighed. 


CHAPTER  XII 
SANGER'S  OFFER 

ETE  in  the  evening,  a  few  days  after  his  call  on  Mrs. 
Gilbert,  Bob  returned  home  from  a  hard  day's 
work.  The  election  was  only  a  month  away,  and  the 
campaign  was  in  full  swing.  He  had  spent  the  day 
meeting  with  supporters  from  different  parts  of  the 
city,  hearing  reports  and  making  suggestions  with  a  de- 
tailed knowledge  of  conditions  which  often  made  his 
lieutenants  to  marvel. 

There  had  been  little  in  the  reports  to  annoy  him. 
His  organization  was  intact,  working  like  the  well-oiled 
machine  it  was.  Reports  from  the  enemy's  camp  gave 
further  cause  for  satisfaction.  The  independent-Dem- 
ocratic candidate  was  not  making  the  headway  ex- 
pected. Yet  Bob  went  home  disturbed  in  mind.  The 
day  had  been  passed  among  men  who  were  devoting 
their  time  and  energy  in  his  interest.  But  through  all 
their  conferences  he  had  been  conscious  of  an  unaccus- 
tomed, oppressive  sense  of  loneliness.  And  he  had  not 
seen  Remington  since  their  interview  in  his  office. 

When  he  entered  the  house,  he  saw  Kathleen  sitting 
in  the  library,  sewing.  She  looked  up  with  a  bright 
smile,  as  he  hesitated  before  the  door. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  queried  doubtfully,  as  though 
not  quite  sure  of  his  welcome. 

2O2 


SANGER'S  OFFER  203 

"Since  when  this  timidity?"  she  laughed.  "Of. 
course,  come  in.  I  was  just  thinking  about  you. 
Mother  was  bewailing  to-day  that  we  don't  see  much 
of  you,  now  the  campaign  has  started." 

"Well,"  he  looked  at  his  watch,  "if  it  won't  make 
you  sleepy,  I'll  let  you  administer  your  company  for 
half  an  hour." 

"You  speak  as  though  my  company  were  bad  medi- 
cine!" 

"Paul  says  it's  the  best  medicine  for  all  ills." 

"O,  Paul  always  speaks  in  figures." 

Bob  smiled  pleasantly.  "I'm  sure  he's  right.  You're 
a  very  soothing  person,  Kathleen.  I  suppose  it's  be- 
cause you  have  no  doubts  yourself,  all  your  problems 
are  solved." 

"And  have  you  doubts  and  unsolved  problems?" 

"It's  an  everlasting  struggle,"  he  said,  a  trifle  wear- 
ily, she  thought.  "The  old  doubts  and  problems  are  no> 
sooner  solved  than  new  ones  arise."  He  stopped  ab- 
ruptly. 

Kathleen  asked  no  further  questions.  For  a  while, 
they  sat  in  silence.  Presently  she  became  aware  that 
he  was  regarding  her  intently.  She  glanced  up  quickly. 

"Caught  you,  didn't  I  ?  You  look  at  me  as  though  I 
were  one  of  your  problems." 

"You  are.  But  I  wasn't  trying  to  solve  you.  I  gave 
that  up  long  ago.  I  was  looking  at  your  hair.  It's 
getting  gray." 

"That's  very  unkind  of  you,"  she  reproved  him  smil- 
ingly, "to  remind  me  that  I'm  growing  old." 

"Old !  You're  two  years  younger  than  I." 

"I'm  nearly  thirty-five,"  she  said  quietly.  "In  all: 
probability  half  of  our  lives  has  been  lived.  A  few- 


204         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

more  years  and  we  shall  be  in  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf, 
you  and  I." 

Bob  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  as  though  he  had  just 
come  upon  a  new  and  disturbing  fact.  "I've  never 
thought  of  that,"  he  said  slowly.  Then  he  smote  his 
chair  angrily.  "Why  must  we  grow  old  and  feeble  and 
contemptible  ?" 

"Contemptible?"  She  looked  up  quickly.  "You're 
an  iconoclast,  Bob.  Ever  since  the  world  was  created, 
it  has  been  reverencing  age  for  its  experience  and  wis- 
dom." 

"That's  because  the  world  is  too  young  to  have  ac- 
quired wisdom.  Why  should  we  reverence  age — which 
means  feebleness  and  decay?  It  is  the  most  con- 
temptible thing  in  life.  Youth  only — vitality,  strength 
— is  admirable.  To  grow  old  is  the  easiest  thing  we 
do ;  all  one  has  to  do  is  to  exist  a  few  years.  Experi- 
ence is  no  credit;  we  all  acquire  experience,  we  can't 
help  it.  As  for  the  wisdom  of  age,  what  is  that  ?  One 
must  be  a  fool  indeed  not  to  pick  up  some  wisdom  in 
the  course  of  fifty  or  sixty  years." 

"Your  logic  is  merciless.  Can't  you  leave  us  just  one 
comforting  illusion  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is  an  illusion.  We  don't  really  reverence 
age.  We  all  despise  it  in  others  and  hate  it  in  our- 
selves. Reverence  for  age  is  just  one  of  the  lies  we 
keep  telling  as  a  sop  to  our  cowardice.  We  must  all 
grow  old  and  we  must  all  have  an  excuse  for  tolerance 
from  the  young  and  strong." 

"Yes,"  Kathleen  assented,  "we  must  all  grow  old. 
But  age  has  its  compensations." 

"Decay  its  compensations?    I  fail  to  see  them." 


SANGER'S  OFFER  205 

"Faith,  Hope,  Love.  And  the  greatest  of  these  is 
Love." 

Bob  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  He  was  never  quite 
sure  when  Kathleen's  observations  were  meant  to  have 
a  pointed  application  to  his  case.  But  before  he  could 
answer,  the  door-bell  rang.  He  frowned. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  he  exclaimed  regretfully.  "I 
have  an  appointment  with  Sanger  at  ten." 

Kathleen  gathered  up  her  sewing  and  arose.  He 
looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"Are  you  very  tired  ?" 

"No,  but  you'd  better  use  this  room.  It's  well 
warmed." 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I  wish  you'd  stay.  It  may  be 
just  as  well  to  have  a  third  person  present." 

"But  Mr.  Sanger  may  not  like  it,"  she  objected  hes- 
itatingly. 

"Mr.  Sanger  may  like  it  or  not,"  Bob  observed  care- 
lessly. "Sit  down." 

He  went  to  the  door  himself  and  let  Sanger  in.  A 
minute  later  the  two  men  entered  the  library.  Kathleen 
saw  a  tall  man  in  evening  dress,  who  bore  himself  with 
an  air  of  quiet  confidence. 

"Miss  Flinn,"  Bob  introduced  him,  "this  is  Mr. 
Sanger.  He's  my  immediate  enemy  just  now." 

Sanger  bowed  genially  and  laughed.  "A  very 
friendly  enemy  just  at  present." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  meet  one  of  our  enemies — es- 
pecially if  he  be  friendly,"  she  smiled.  "Won't  you  sit 
down,  Mr:  Sanger?" 

"Surely  not  our  enemies,  Miss  Flinn!" 

"I'm  Irish  and  so  my  friends'  enemies  are  mine,  of 
course." 


206         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"All  the  more  reason  why  Mr.  McAdoo  and  I  should 
make  peace,"  he  answered  gracefully. 

"Don't  believe  her,"  Bob  interrupted  with  a  smile. 
"Miss  Flinn  can't  be  an  enemy  to  any  one.  She's  one 
of  those  rare  persons  who  love  their  fellow-men." 

"Ah !"  Sanger  said.  "Then  the  tribe  of  Abou  ben 
Adhem  is  not  yet  extinct?" 

"It  is  a  bigger  tribe  than  you  may  think,"  Kathleen 
responded,  although  she  flushed  slightly.  "And  still 
growing,  Mr.  Sanger." 

"Your  generosity  to  your  fellows  does  you  credit, 
Miss  Flinn,"  Sanger  returned,  as  he  seated  himself. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  solid  comfort  and  turned 
to  Bob.  "You're  a  lucky  man,  Mr.  McAdoo,  to  be  able 
to  come  home  to  such  cozy  surroundings — and  such 
delightful  company,"  he  said,  half  enviously.  "For 
myself,  I'm  not  so  fortunate.  My  wife  is  occupied  with 
her  social  duties  and  I'm  thrown  on  the  tender  mercies 
of  my  sister,  Mrs.  Gilbert.  Though  I  shouldn't  com- 
plain of  such  a  lot.  You  know  her,  I  believe,"  he  ad- 
dressed Bob.  "She  told  me  you  called  the  other  day." 
There  was  a  question  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  Bob  answered  curtly.  Kathleen  glanced  in 
quick  surprise  toward  Bob. 

"My  sister  is  a  rare  woman,"  Sanger  continued. 
"She  has  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  her  life.  Her 
husband  was  Leonard  Gilbert,"  he  added  in  explana- 
tion. 

"Ah!  I  remember.  It  was  very  sad,"  Kathleen 
said  gently. 

"She  has  borne  her  trouble  with  a  splendid  courage," 
Sanger  went  on,  and  added  with  a  smile,  "You  see, 
I'm  very  proud  of  her.  Your  friend  Remington,  I 


SANGER'S  OFFER  207 

understand,  is  very  much  in  love  with  her."  He  looked 
inquiringly  at  Bob.  Kathleen  saw  the  latter's  face 
harden. 

"It  would  be  a  very  suitable  match,"  Sanger  paused 
for  a  moment.  "In  fact,  certain. conditions  being  as- 
sured, I  may  say  I  should  approve  of  it  highly.  Socially, 
it  might  leave  something  to  be  desired — " 

"Mr.  Remington  comes  of  a  very  fine  family,"  Kath- 
leen interrupted  quickly.  "He  is  of  the  Vermont  Rem- 
ingtons." 

"Ah!  I  have  heard  of  them,"  Sanger  assented 
courteously.  "As  you  say,  a  fine  old  stock.  But  that 
is  really  immaterial.  He's  a  splendid  fellow  personally 
and  a  rising  man.  And  my  sister  has  too  much  good 
sense  to  be  swayed  by  social  considerations.  She  really 
has  little  taste  for  society." 

"I  suppose,"  Bob  broke  in,  "you  didn't  come  here  for 
match-making.  Let's  get  down  to  business." 

"As  you  please,"  Sanger  agreed  coldly.  He  looked 
inquiringly  at  Kathleen. 

"Miss  Flinn  will  be  present,"  Bob  answered  the  look, 
"at  my  request." 

Sanger  hesitated,  but  as  Kathleen,  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  her  sewing,  evinced  no  intention  of  leaving, 
he  yielded  gracefully.  "Certainly,  Miss  Flinn's  pres- 
ence will  be  a  guaranty  of  a  peaceful  interview.  I'm 
a  lover  of  peace." 

"On  your  own  terms,"  Bob  grunted  skeptically. 

"You  misunderstand  me,  Mr.  McAdoo.  I'm  willing 
to  make  concessions — that  is,  within  proper  limits." 

He  reclined  comfortably  in  his  chair  and  placed  his 
hands  together,  finger-tip  accurately  meeting  finger-tip. 

"Circumstances  of  which  I  am  perhaps  the  victim," 


2o8         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

he  began,  "make  it  necessary  for  me  to  take  an  active 
part  for  the  future  in  our  local  and  state  politics." 

"Haven't  you  already  been  somewhat  active?" 

Sanger  waved  his  hand  carelessly.  "Tentatively, 
tentatively  only,  Mr.  McAdoo.  Hereafter  I  propose  to 
be  more  active — and  to  better  effect,  I  hope.  Certain 
ventures  in  which  I  am  interested,  individually  and  in 
connection  with  other  large  investors  of  our  state,  make 
this  imperative." 

"The  constitution  guarantees  every  man  the  right  to 
become  a  politician,  I  believe." 

"Precisely.  Unfortunately,  in  the  present  campaign 
I  find  myself  compelled  to  oppose  your  election.  I  re- 
gret it  exceedingly  and,  frankly,  I'm  here  to  propose 
that  we  work  in  harmony  in  the  future." 

"That  comes  rather  late." 

"Please  don't  refuse  until  you  have  heard  me  out. 
Allow  me  to  explain  our  position.  For  several  years 
certain  gentlemen,  all  large  investors — you  will  under- 
stand who  they  are — including  my  late  uncle  and  my- 
self, have  kept  William  Murchell  in  power  in  this  state, 
at  considerable  expense  to  ourselves.  In  return  we  had 
the  right  to  demand  protection  for  our  interests. 
Murchell,  however,  has  of  late  proven  very  ungrateful. 
He  has  passed  under  the  influence  of  John  Dunmeade. 
Dunmeade,  Mr.  McAdoo,  is  a  dangerous  man,  an  utter 
radical,  an  impracticable  dreamer,  a  man  of  socialistic 
tendencies.  His  influence  in  our  politics  is  a  menace 
to  individual  property  rights." 

"And  particularly  to  your  interests.  Speak  in  words 
of  one  syllable,  Mr.  Sanger.  I'm  a  politician,  not  a  po- 
litical economist." 

Sanger's  eyes  narrowed  slightly,  but  he  went  on  im- 


SANGER'S  OFFER  209 

perturbably.  "My  dislike  of  Dunmeade  is  only  political. 
His  wife  is  my  cousin.  In  fact,  it  was  out  of  consider- 
ation for  her  that  my  uncle  prevailed  upon  his  fellow 
investors  to  bear  with  her  husband  and  Murchell  the 
past  five  years.  I  myself  never  allow  personal  consid- 
erations to  influence  business  policy.  And  the  time  has 
come  when  their  ingratitude  can  no  longer  be  borne 
with.  The  events  leading  up  to  Dunmeade's  nomina- 
tion and  the  action  of  the  late  legislature  have  been  too 
much.  We  are  determined  that  Murchell  and  Dun- 
meade must  go  out  of  politics  completely." 

"Humph !    How  are  you  going  to  do  it  ?" 

Sanger  smiled  confidently.  "We  shall  find  the  means. 
Two  years  from  now  a  new  governor,  legisla- 
ture and  United  States  senator  must  be  elected.  They 
must  be  absolutely  independent  of  Murchell  and  Dun- 
meade." 

"But  not  independent  of  you?" 

"Precisely.  Which  brings  me  to  your  case.  Permit 
me  to  say,  Mr.  McAdoo,  I  have  a  deep  admiration  for 
you.  You  have  a  remarkable  genius  for  politics.  You 
can  be  very  useful  to  us — and  we  can  be  very  useful  to 
you.  If  you  are  elected — which  is  by  no  means  assured  ( 
— the  city  organization  will  be  absolutely  under  your 
control.  With  this  city  and  our  share  of  the  country 
districts  and  Adelphia,  which  you  must  admit  we  al- 
ready control,  we  are  certain  of  setting  Murchell  and 
Cousin  Dunmeade  aside.  I  suggest,"  he  concluded, 
"that  you  come  in  with  us." 

"Purely  out  of  philanthropic  belief  in  the  sanctity  of 
individual  property  rights,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  at  all.  We  don't  demand  disinterested  motives. 
In  fact,  we  should  suspect  the  sincerity  of  such  motives, 


210         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

if  alleged.  We  expect  to  make  it  worth  your  while. 
We  will,  to  begin  with,  contribute  liberally  to  your 
campaign  funds." 

"As  liberally  as  you  have  already  contributed  to 
Larkin's  fund?" 

"You  are  well  informed,"  Sanger  said,  his  face  be- 
traying surprise. 

"It's  my  business  to  be  well  informed." 

Sanger  eyed  Bob  narrowly  before  continuing.  "That 
proves  the  propriety  of  my  next  suggestion.  We'll  do 
more  than  contribute  to  your  campaign.  When 
Murchell  is  retired,  we  must  have  some  one  to  take  his 
place  at  the  head  of  the  reformed  organization.  I  speak 
for  my  partners  in  this  enterprise  when  I  say  that,  if 
you  assist  us  to  beat  him,  we  will  put  you  in  Murchell's 
place  as  state  leader."  Kathleen  started,  her  work  ar- 
rested. 

"Upon  the  condition,  of  course,  that  you  will  secure 
us  the  protection  and  legislation  we  desire,"  Sanger 
continued.  "And  as  a  guaranty  of  our  good  faith  we 
will  consent  to  your  friend  Remington  as  next  gov- 
ernor." 

"Consent?    I  thought  you  were  to  make  me  boss?" 

"Of  course,  we  should  have  to  be  consulted  in  all  im- 
portant nominations." 

"Then  you  don't  propose  to  give  me  the  free  hand 
you  gave  Murchell  ?" 

"Frankly,  no.  We  can't  take  that  risk  again — with 
any  man." 

"Hmmm!"  Bob  murmured  reflectively.  "And  who 
is  your  candidate  for  senator  ?" 

Sanger  laughed.  "I  shouldn't  object  to  a  term  in  the 
senate  myself.  I  think  I'm  not  entirely  incompetent. 


S ANGER'S  OFFER  211 

You  see,  I'm  quite  frank  with  you,  exposing  all  our 
plans." 

"No,  Mr.  Sanger,"  Bob  answered  coolly,  "you're  not 
frank.  You  have  told  me  nothing  I  didn't  know — or 
suspect.  Let  me  state  the  case  to  you  exactly  as  it  is. 
My  election  is  assured ;  nothing  you  can  do  will  prevent 
it.  You've  already  tried  to  prevent  it.  You  personally 
were  responsible  for  the  Hemenway  business.  You 
personally  were  responsible  for  the  nomination  of 
Larkin,  with  the  one  intention  of  breaking  me.  But 
you  don't  believe  he  will  be  elected.  And  that's  why 
you  come  to  me.  You  don't  like  me.  You  don't  trust 
me.  You'll  go  on  secretly  doing  all  you  can  to  beat 
me.  If  I'm  beaten,  you  will  forget  we  ever  made  a 
deal.  But  if  I'm  elected,  you  will  expect  me  to  keep  my 
part  of  the  bargain.  Your  offer  isn't  honestly  made, 
Mr.  Sanger." 

"My  dear  sir,"  Sanger  protested  earnestly,  "the  word 
of  a  gentleman — " 

"The  word  of  you  gentlemen  of  finance,"  Bob  inter- 
rupted with  a  sneer,  "is  worth  just  what  it  has  to  be 
worth." 

"You  are  unjust,"  Sanger  answered  with  unruffled 
serenity,  "but  I'll  not  argue  that.  However,  if  a  novice 
may  be  permitted  to  instruct  an  experienced  politician, 
I  may  remind  you  that  politics  costs  money  and  that 
you're  not  a  rich  man,  comparatively.  The  last  two 
years  have  cost  you  more  than  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  Four  years  more  would  see  you  bankrupt." 

"You  are  well  informed,"  Bob  said,  smiling  com- 
fortably. 

"It's  my  business  to  be  well  informed,"  Sanger  re- 
torted affably.  "Frankly  I  see  nothing  before  you  but 


212         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

complete  political  extinction,  unless  you  join  us.  Be- 
cause we're  provisioned  for  a  long  siege  and  you  are 
not.  It  strikes  me  that,  whether  we  trust  you  or  not, 
you  must  trust  us.  Do  I  put  the  situation  fairly?" 

"As  you  see  it,  no  doubt,"  Bob  replied,  unmoved. 

"There  is,  of  course,"  Sanger  continued  significantly, 
"your  friend  Remington  to  be  considered.  If  I  may 
judge  from  appearances,  he  is  exceedingly  anxious  to 
marry  my  sister.  I  can't  answer  for  her — that  is,  abso- 
lutely. But  it  isn't  impossible  that  she  should  come  to 
share  his  feeling.  I  have  never  known  her  to  display 
the  interest  in  any  other  man  that  she  gives  Reming- 
ton. Mrs.  Gilbert,  unfortunately,  hasn't  been  educated 
to  domestic  economy.  And  under  the  terms  of  my 
uncle's  will  she  is  dependent  upon  me  for  her  income. 
Of  course,  I  couldn't  be  expected  to  approve  of  a  match 
with  one  who  is  trying  to  injure  me." 

Kathleen  saw  Bob's  face  light  up  queerly.  "Like 
you,  I  don't  allow  personal  considerations  to  interfere 
with  business  policy,"  he  said  impassively. 

"Think  it  over.  The  matter  doesn't  require  im- 
mediate adjustment." 

Bob's  countenance  set  in  what  Irishtown  termed  his 
"fightin'  face."  He  rose  to  end  the  interview.  "I  can 
give  you  our  answer  now,"  he  said  coldly.  Then  he 
saw  Kathleen  looking  up  at  him  eagerly,  proudly.  His 
face  relaxed  in  a  whimsical  smile. 

"What  shall  we  say,  Kathleen  ?" 

"Will  you  let  me  answer  for  you  ?" 

Bob  nodded.  Kathleen  looked  at  him  long  and 
searchingly.  Then  she  arose  and  turned  to  Sanger, 
who  also  was  on  his  feet 

"Mr.  McAdoo  says,"  she  spoke  quietly,  "that  to  try; 


S ANGER'S  OFFER  213 

to  bribe  him  through  his  friendship  is  useless,  because 
his  friendship  is  sincere.  Nor  does  your  offer  of  state 
leadership  tempt  him.  Mr.  McAdoo  is  pledged  to  cer- 
tain policies  which  he  couldn't  carry  out  if  he  joined 
you.  He  will  keep  his  word.  Mr.  McAdoo  says  also 
that  if  you  oppose  Governor  Dunmeade  and  Mr. 
Murchell,  he  will  support  them  to  the  end.  Your  money 
may  win  out,  but  there  are  worse  things  than  losing  a 
good  fight,  Mr.  Sanger.  One  of  them  is  dishonest  vic- 
tory. We — "  she  gave  Bob  a  quick  look;  he  was  not 
smiling — "we  had  just  decided,  when  you  came  in,  Mr. 
Sanger,  that  we  are  no  longer  young.  And  we  have 
dreams  of  doing  a  great  deal  of  good  for  the  world  be- 
fore we  are  old  and  it  is  too  late." 

"Very  beautiful  sentiments,  I'm  sure,  Miss  Flinn — 
quite  unique  in  this  prosaic  century,"  Sanger  smiled. 
"And  are  these  views  yours  also,  Mr.  McAdoo?" 

Bob's  answer  was  quietly  spoken.  "Miss  Flinn  over- 
states my  motives,  but  as  to  your  proposal  and  my 
support  of  Murchell  and  Dunmeade,  she  is  quite  right." 

Sanger  shrugged  his  shoulders  carelessly.  "I  was 
quite  sure  of  it  before  I  came.  I  don't  know  just  what 
you  want,  Mr.  McAdoo.  I'm  quite  positive  it  isn't  to 
do  'a  great  deal  of  good  for  the  world.'  But  I  was 
equally  positive  that  your  plans  wouldn't  fit  in  with 
ours.  I  only  made  the  offer  because  it  was  urged  upon 
me  by  others  who  are  in  this  with  me.  My  own  policy 
is  to  break,  not  buy  off,  opposition." 

He  bowed  gracefully  to  Kathleen. 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  genuineness  of  your 
motives,  Miss  Flinn.  Good  night.  I'm  sorry  the  out- 
come of  the  scrimmage  must  be  disappointing  to  you." 

Bob  followed  Sanger  into  the  hallway  and  silently 


214         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

watched  the  millionaire  don  his  overcoat.  As  he  was 
pulling  on  his  gloves  Sanger  remarked : 

"It's  a  good  thing  for  us,  McAdoo,  that  you  haven't 
fooled  the  world  as  you  have  Miss  Flinn.  It's  a  better 
thing  that  you  aren't  what  she  thinks  you.  There  is 
only  one  person  in  the  world  that  I  fear,  the  fanatic. 
He  possesses  moral  passion.  Moral  passion  is  as  un- 
certain, and  therefore  as  dangerous,  as  lightning  or 
women.  You  haven't  it." 

"Good  night,"  Bob  answered,  as  he  held  open  the 
door. 

When  he  returned  to  the  library,  Kathleen  was  sew- 
ing quietly  once  more. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  sitting  down,  "as  Paul  would 
say,  I  have  burned  my  bridges  behind  me." 

"What  a  shame  he  is  so  conscienceless !  He  has  such 
nice  manners." 

"Humph!  You  women  are  all  alike,  judging  a  man 
by  his  outside.  I  don't  like  an  assassin  any  better  be- 
cause he  stabs  me  politely.  I  hate  to  say  it  of  any  man, 
but  he  is  almost  worse  than  I  am. 

"And  now,"  he  added,  "he  has  given  me  my  warn- 
ing." 

"But  you  can  beat  him,"  Kathleen  answered  with 
loyal  confidence. 

"Now,  yes.  But  in  the  long  run,  probably  not,"  he 
said  grimly.  "I  know  the  game,  Kathleen.  Money  is 
the  only  political  orator  nowadays  who  gets  a  hearing. 
And  my  money  won't  last  me  more  than  three  or  four 
years  more  at  the  present  rate,  as  he  knows.  Sooner  or 
later  their  millions  will  get  me,  unless  some  miracle 
hastens  a  popular  revolution — or  unless  I  start  grafting 
again." 


S ANGER'S  OFFER  215 

"Have  you  stopped,  then  ?" 

"I  haven't  made  a  penny  out  of  politics  in  the  last 
six  years." 

"And  you  won't  begin  again."  She  did  not  ask  a 
question. 

"No."  His  tone  was  curiously  regretful.  "I  won't. 
I  used  to,  without  a  thought.  But  now  I  hate  the  notion. 
I  don't  understand  it,"  he  cried  impatiently. 

Kathleen  snipped  her  thread  and  rose.  "My  dear 
boy!"  she  laughed.  "Yes,  boy!  For  all  your  years 
and  wisdom  you're  still  nothing  but  a  big  child.  But  I 
am  a  middle-aged  woman  and  very  wise  indeed.  And 
I  have  faith.  The  miracle  will  come.  I  have  seen 
greater  miracles  than  a  popular  revolution.  Good 
night." 

"I  suppose  she  means  me,"  Bob  thought  complain- 
ingly,  when  she  was  gone.  "I'm  afraid  she's  right.  I'm 
a  stupendous  fraud.  I'm  afraid  I'm  developing  a  con- 
science. 

"But  why?"  he  demanded  impatiently.     "Why?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TEMPTATIONS 

PAUL  REMINGTON  impatiently  flung  aside  the 
book  he  had  been  trying  to  read.  It  was  Sunday, 
and  to  Paul  the  first  day  of  the  week  was  always  dis- 
tinctly oppressive.  For  the  Sabbath  in  the  Steel  City 
is  like  unto  the  Lord's  day  in  no  other  city.  The 
mills  never  cease,  the  street-cars  rattle  irreverently,  a 
few  godless,  reckless  souls  risk  damnation  in  the  here- 
after and  loss  of  caste  in  the  present  by  taking  the  air 
and  bodily  recreation.  But  for  the  most  part  the  city, 
as  becomes  a  sober  Scotch  Presbyterian  community, 
remembers  its  Fourth  Commandment  and  remains  con- 
scientiously and  painfully  indoors;  a  vague  but  per- 
ceptible atmosphere  of  melancholy  piety  broods  over 
the  city. 

Paul  proceeded  to  lose  himself  in  a  profound  reverie. 
An  hour  later  he  was  still  lost  in  his  dreaming.  He 
came  to  himself  with  a  start.  He  shuddered. 

"It's  no  use.  This  day  has  got  on  my  nerves.  The 
time  when  myself  and  my  dreams  were  all  the  com- 
pany I  needed  is  gone.  Dreams  are  mighty  poor 
heart  food.  And  I'm  starving.  I  haven't  seen  her  for 
two  days  and  I  can't  wait  another  day — another  hour 
— another  minute.  I  suppose,"  he  added  complain- 
ingly,  "most  people  would  call  this  damn  foolishness." 

216 


TEMPTATIONS  217 

He  rose  and  passed  into  his  bedroom,  where  he 
carefully  changed  his  attire.  His  toilet  completed,  he 
stepped  back  and  surveyed,  with  a  nod  of  frank  satis- 
faction, the  well-groomed  figure  in  the  mirror.  As  he 
looked,  something  in  the  reflection  caused  him  to 
frown.  He  passed  into  the  other  room,  took  from  the 
mantel  an  old  miniature  and  returned  to  the  mirror. 
Critically  he  compared  the  face  in  the  miniature  with 
that  reflected  in  the  mirror. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  he  muttered,  "how  strong  the 
resemblance  is.  O,  why  should  I,  with  my  heritage, 
be  placed  where  control  of  passion  and  steadfast  loy- 
alty are  necessary?  Your  face — this  resemblance — 
are  a  continual  prophecy  of  my  utter  and  ultimate  fu- 
tility. But  I'll  end  that  right  here." 

Roughly  he  tore  the  frame  open  and  removed  the 
painted  ivory.  Then  he  strode  into  the  other  room 
again  and  cast  the  portrait  on  the  hot  coals  in  the  grate. 

"There,  you  detestable  renegade,  you  and  your  be- 
quest go  out  of  my  life  for  ever.  To  win  her  without 
hurting  Bob — to  become  worthy  of  her  love  and  his 
friendship — if  I'm  to  do  that,  I  can't  have  you  to  re- 
mind me  of  my  temperamental  defects.  Confidence  is 
half  the  battle,  as  Bob  says." 

For  a  minute  or  so  the  heat  made  no  impression  on 
the  miniature.  Then  the  paint  began  to  swell  and 
crack.  To  Paul's  fancy  it  seemed  that  the  somber 
face  on  the  coals  changed  its  expression,  that  over  it 
spread  a  mocking,  malicious  leer. 

"Ah !  I  know  what  you  mean  by  that.  That  I  can 
throw  you  into  the  flames,  but  that  here  in  my  face  is 
a  likeness  I  can't  destroy — and  here  in  my  heart,  too. 
Well,  we'll  see." 


2i8         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

He  snatched  up  the  poker  and  savagely  jabbed  the 
miniature  until  its  fragments  were  buried  in  the  coals. 
But  when  this  was  done,  he  continued  to  stare  into  the 
fire,  as  though  fascinated.  His  grasp  relaxed  and  the 
poker  fell  to  the  hearth  with  a  sharp  clang.  His  bent 
attitude  straightened. 

"It's  true,"  he  groaned,  "it's  true!  This  isn't  cow- 
ardice, but  knowledge.  I'm  a  traitor  at  heart  already. 
If  it  came  to  a  final  choice  between  him  and  her,  he 
might  burn  in  hell  before  I  would  leave  her." 

A  half-hour  later  Paul  was  ushered  into  the  Sanger 
drawing-room.  Eleanor  not  appearing  at  once,  he 
wandered  through  an  open  door  into  the  music-room, 
at  one  end  of  which  had  been  installed  a  small  pipe- 
organ.  Now  modern  science  has  perfected  the  organ 
that  the  souls  of  men  might  find  expression. 

And  Paul,  of  the  many  talents,  without  being  a 
great  musician,  knew  how  to  make  the  organ  respond 
to  his  soul's  mood.  He  seated  himself  and  began  to 
play.  His  idle  fingering  gradually  took  form  in  a  pas- 
sionate, florid  gust  of  melody  that  filled  the  big  house. 
Then  the  stormy  mood  died  away  and  the  organ  sang  a 
weird,  minor  refrain.  Eleanor,  entering  unobserved  by 
the  player,  stood  leaning  against  a  chair  near  him,  re- 
garding him  with  an  odd  look,  in  which  admiration 
and  pity — perhaps  a  shade  of  contempt — mingled.  For 
several  minutes  he  played  on,  apparently  not  noticing 
her  presence. 

At  last,  without  turning  or  ceasing  his  playing,  he 
spoke.  "I  can't  see  you,  but  I  know  you  are  there." 

"Lawyer,  politician,  orator,  musician!  The  gods 
have  been  good  to  you,"  she  murmured  quizzically. 


TEMPTATIONS  219 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  a  trace  of  bitterness. 
"Jack  of  all  trades  and  master  of  none.  But  first  and 
above  all,  Mrs.  Gilbert's  most  sincere  devotee." 

"Is  being  Mrs.  Gilbert's  devotee  a  trade,  then?"  she 
queried  idly. 

"At  least,  it's  more  than  a  profession." 

"Come,  that  is  beneath  you.    A  pun,  you  know — " 

"Yes,  and  my  spirits  are  as  low  as  my  wit  to-day."' 
He  ceased  to  play  and  began  to  examine  a  pile  of 
music  lying  beside  him. 

She  struck  the  back  of  the  chair,  in  vexation  half 
pretended,  half  real.  "Are  you  ever  in  the  same  mood 
for  two  consecutive  days  ?  Your  moods  are  as  various 
— as  mine." 

"I'm  constant  in  at  least  one  thing — but  you  won't 
let  me  speak  of  that,"  he  responded  gloomily.  "To- 
day I'm  possessed  of  a  thousand  devils.  Sing." 

He  opened  a  sheet  of  music  before  him  and  struck 
into  the  accompaniment.  And  Eleanor,  standing 
where  she  was,  sang. 

Eleanor  Gilbert  could  sing.  And  that  afternoon  she 
sang  as  she  had  never  sung  before.  For  in  her  singing 
that  day  she  found  expression  for  what  she  had  never 
quite  dared  to  put  into  words,  the  longing  for  some- 
thing higher  and  better  than  had  yet  come  into  her  life, 
to  fulfil  the  ultimate  woman's  mission — a  longing 
which  of  late  had  been  growing  more  and  more  poign- 
ant within  her.  As  she  sang,  her  heart  flooded  with 
kindliness  toward  the  handsome,  romantic  young  man 
before  her. 

"I  wish,"  she  thought  once,  when  at  the  end  of  a 
verse  the  organ  took  up  the  refrain,  "I  wish  I  were 


220         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

your  mother.  I  wonder,  can  this  be  the  beginning  of 
love — and  for  you?" 

Song  followed  song,  until  at  length  Paul  turned 
from  the  organ  and  faced  her. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  simply. 

She  rested  her  elbows  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  fold- 
ing her  hands  and  dropping  her  chin  on  them. 

"How  are  those  devils  now?" 

"Gone,  every  one  of  them.  You're  the  most  emi- 
nently satisfactory  person  in  the  world.  I  came  here 
restless,  morbid,  filled  with  dismal  forebodings.  You 
sing — the  demons  flee." 

"O,  no.  It  wasn't  I  who  worked  the  magic,  but 
your  imagination.  The  demons  existed  only  in  your 
imagination,  and  when  you  imagine  they  are  gone, 
they  are  gone." 

He  waved  his  arm  imperiously.  "Cease,  woman, 
cease !"  he  cried  in  burlesque  tones.  "I  refuse  to  allow 
you  to  speak  slightingly  of  yourself.  I  insist,  you're 
the  most  satisfactory  person  this  side  of  immortality. 
Haven't  you  any  faults  at  all  ?" 

"I  told  you  it  was  your  imagination.  Of  course,  I 
have  lots  of  them.  Otherwise  I  couldn't  be  even  a 
little  satisfactory." 

"No,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head  obstinately.  "I 
have  made  a  careful  search,  thinking  to  overcome  this 
feeling  of  standing  on  holy  ground  when  with  you; 
but  I  haven't  discovered  the  slightest  possible  trace  of 
the  smallest  possible  fault  in  you." 

"You're  in  bad  form  to-day,  aren't  you?  That 
ponderous  compliment  proves  its  own  insincerity." 

He  folded  his  arms  contentedly.  "By  the  way,  when 
are  you  going  to  let  me  propose  ?" 


TEMPTATIONS  221 

"Must  I  ever  let  you  ?" 

"It  is  inevitable  that  I  shall  propose  sooner  or  later, 
whether  you  consent  or  not.  But  I  prefer  to  do  it 
under  the  most  propitious  circumstances." 

"Why  propose  at  all?"  she  argued,  smiling.  "I 
like  you.  We  are  good  friends.  Why  risk  our  friend- 
ship by  introducing  uncertainties  into  it?" 

"There  is  no  uncertainty  in  my  love  for  you." 

"How  do  you  know?  How  can  you  be  sure  that 
you  love  me  and  will  love  me  a  year  hence?" 

"How  can  I  be  sure !  When  every  atom  of  my  being 
thrills—" 

"Please  leave  out  the  rhetoric,"  she  interrupted. 
"They  say  you  can  judge  of  love  by  the  sacrifices  it  is 
willing  to  make.  What  would  you  give  up  for  me?" 

"What  would  I  give  up  ?    Everything." 

'  'Everything'  is  a  big  word,  my  friend,"  she  an- 
swered skeptically.  "Let's  come  down  to  facts,  as 
Henry  would  say.  Friends  ?" 

The  descendant  of  the  renegade  Jewess  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

She  pressed  him  almost  fiercely.  "Friends?  Even 
your  friend  McAdoo?" 

"For  God's  sake,  don't!" 

"What!"  she  said  mockingly.  "Then  'everything' 
doesn't  mean  everything?" 

Slowly  his  hands  fell  to  his  side.  His  face  was  very- 
white,  his  eyes  unutterably  weary.  His  head  went  up 
as  he  answered  her  steadily,  though  with  visible  effort. 

"No,  'everything*  doesn't  mean  everything.  When 
he  asked  me  to  give  you  up,  I  refused.  If  you  should 
demand  that  I  give  him  up,  I  must  make  the  same 
answer.  Otherwise  I  must  be  utterly  contemptible. 


222         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

I  forced  my  friendship  on  him  against  his  will.  If  it 
means  anything  to  him  now,  I  can't  take  it  away  from 
him." 

He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  so  did  not  see 
the  kindliness  that  flashed  momentarily  into  her  face. 

"Ah!  you  are  worth  while  now!"  she  cried  in- 
wardly. "If  only  you  could  be  so  always !  I  almost — 
almost — believe  I  could  love  you." 

"My  dear  friend!"  she  said  aloud  gently,  "I'm  not 
tempting  you,  because  I  have  nothing  to  offer  in  ex- 
change for  the  sacrifice.  I'm  only  showing  you  what 
it  means  to  care  for  an  intensely  selfish  woman.  And 
I — I  should  like  to  care  for  you.  But  I  dare  not.  I'm 
too  much  like  Mr.  McAdoo.  I  can  never  let  myself 
love  any  man  with  whom  I  am  not  first.  And  he 
hates  me.  It  dates  from  a  day  eleven  years  ago,  when 
he  saved  my  life."  Paul  looked  up,  astounded.  "He 
has  hated  the  memory  of  me  ever  since,  I  think.  If  I 
married  you,  sooner  or  later  we  should  come  to  the 
place  where  you  must  hurt  him  or  me.  That  would 
mean  misery  for  us  both.  I  can  never  think  seriously 
of  caring  for  you  until  he  withdraws  his  objections  to 
me — or  until  you  are  willing  to  give  him  up  for  me." 

He  made  no  answer.  She  went  close  to  him  and  laid 
a  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  you  see?" 

He  caught  her  hand  closely  in  both  of  his.  "Do  you 
think,"  he  demanded  fiercely,  "do  you  think  you  could 
ever  come  to  care  for  me?" 

"I  wish  you  could  make  me,"  impulsively. 

"Then,"  he  said  with  sudden  determination,  "when 
you  do,  we  will  teach  him  what  a  wonderful  woman 
you  are,  and  he  will  approve." 


TEMPTATIONS  223 

"And  that  would  be  the  only  way  it  could  be,  I  think. 
For  you  could  never  cast  him  aside — and  I  could  never 
ask  you  to — never  let  you." 

She  withdrew  her  hand  gently  from  his  ardent 
clasp. 

"And  now,"  she  said  brightly,  with  an  air  of  dis-- 
missing  the  topic,  "did  you  know  that  you  are  to  dine 
with  Henry  and  me  to-night?  And  afterward  you 
are  to  take  me  to  church.  The  preacher  is  very  dull, 
but  at  least  listening  to  him  will  serve  as  a  sort  of 
penance  for  our  sins." 

The  dinner  passed  off  very  pleasantly  for  Paul. 
The  chef,  as  Sanger  boasted,  was  "really  the  one  ex- 
ponent of  the  fine  art  in  the  Steel  City."  And  Sanger 
himself  proved  to  be  an  admirable  host,  bearing  him- 
self toward  Paul  with  a  frank  cordiality  that  made 
Eleanor  secretly  to  wonder,  and  quite  disarmed  Paul. 
By  the  time  the  entree  was  reached,  the  talk  had  turned 
to  politics,  Sanger  wittily  chaffing  Paul  over  the  lat- 
ter's  reputation  as  a  "friend  of  the  pee-pul,"  Paul  re- 
torting in  kind.  When  coffee  was  served,  the  two  men 
were  deep  in  a  political  argument,  in  which  Sanger 
proved  a  worthy  antagonist,  drawing  on  his  wide 
knowledge  of  industrial  and  commercial  conditions  to 
weave  sophistries  that  more  than  once  discomfited  the 
forensic  Paul.  Eleanor,  taking  no  part  other  than 
to  ask  an  occasional  question,  listened  with  the  deepest 
interest. 

As  the  men  lighted  their  cigars,  she  rose  regretfully. 

"If  we  are  to  do  penance  by  listening  to  Doctor 
Maitland,  I  must  get  ready.  I  give  you  men  just  fif- 
teen minutes  in  which  to  save  the  nation." 

"If  I  can  convert  this  defendant  of  the  vested  in- 


224         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

terests,  I  shall  believe  the  nation's  ultimate  salvation 
possible,"  Paul  laughed. 

"And  if  I  can  convert  this  socialistic  friend  of  the 
people,"  Sanger  retorted,  "I'll  have  hopes,  at  least, 
that  the  threatened  political  chaos  may  be  averted  for 
a  time." 

"I  leave  Thomas  to  keep  the  peace,"  she  smiled,  and 
withdrew. 

"Thomas,"  Sanger  suggested,  "Mr.  Remington's 
glass  needs  attention."  The  needed  attention  was 
given.  "And  now  you  may  leave  us,  Thomas." 

"Quite  seriously,  Remington,"  he  began.  And  then, 
very  adroitly,  for  the  second  time  he  took  Paul  up  into 
a  high  mountain  and  showed  unto  him  all  the  king- 
doms of  the  earth.  These  he  intimated  might  become 
Paul's,  if  only  the  latter  would  help  him,  Sanger,  to 
drive  the  mulish,  hot-headed  foes  of  industrial  prog- 
ress into  utter  and  unending  oblivion.  Paul  laugh- 
ingly declined  the  honor.  In  the  exalted  mood  follow- 
ing his  conversation  with  Eleanor,  to  resist  temptation 
was  easy. 

"It  comes  too  high,"  he  laughed.  "I've  got  to  stick 
to  McAdoo." 

"Bring  him  along,  by  all  means.  He  would  be  a  wel- 
come addition  to  our  goodly  company.  I've  men- 
tioned the  matter  to  him  myself,  but  he  refused  owing 
to  an  unfortunate  misapprehension  of  my  motives. 
Perhaps  he  might  be  persuaded  to  reconsider  his  re- 
fusal?" 

Paul  shook  his  head.  "You  don't  know  McAdoo. 
He's  under  pledges  in  this  campaign." 

"O,  but  platforms,  my  dear  Remington,  you 
know — !"  Sanger  protested  humorously. 


TEMPTATIONS  225 

"He  has  made  personal  promises  this  time,  though. 
One  of  them  is  to  show  no  quarter  to  your  people.  I 
never  yet  heard  that  he  made  a  promise  to  break  it." 

Sanger  frowned.  "What's  his  game?  You  and  I 
know  that  he,  at  least,  is  no  friend  of  the  people." 

Paul  smiled.  "To  be  a  friend  of  the  people  is  good 
capital  sometimes,  you  know,"  he  answered,  remem- 
bering Bob's  predictions  of  a  popular  uprising. 

"Your  friend  may  rind  that  he  has  overcapitalized 
it,"  Sanger  said  sententiously.  With  a  wave  of  his 
hand  he  dismissed  the  subject  in  its  personal  bearing 
and  began  an  eloquent  disquisition  on  .the  abstract 
rights  of  property  owners,  which  lasted  until — 

"Henry,"  came  an  admonishing  voice  from  the 
doorway,  where  Eleanor  stood  smiling,  "if  you're  not 
careful,  you'll  spill  that  wine  down  your  sleeve.  I 
shouldn't  care  to  hear  your  comments  on  that  catas- 
trophe. Mr.  Remington,  what  is  it  in  politics  that 
makes  men  so  interested  ?  Here  is  Henry,  the  sedate, 
waving  a  wine-glass  frantically  in  the  air  and  waxing 
positively  eloquent  over  our  industrial  prosperity!" 

"What  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  Paul,  rising  from  the 
table,  "is  whether  Mr.  Sanger  believes  what  he  says." 

"Of  course  not,"  she  laughed.  "That's  merely 
Henry's  method  of  justifying  an  intended  course  of 
action." 

Sanger's  eyes  narrowed  a  trifle,  but  he  laughed  and 
answered  in  the  heartiest  manner. 

"At  least,  Mr.  Remington  may  be  sure  that  I'm  sin- 
cere in  my  good  wishes  for  him  personally.  If  ever 
I  can  do  anything  for  you  in  a  private  way,  don't  fail 
to  let  me  know,  Remington." 

"I  shall  remember  your  promise,"  Paul  said  politely, 


226         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

inwardly  resolving  that,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  he 
would  never  allow  himself  to  incur  obligations  to 
Sanger. 

The  preacher  proved  to  be  as  dull  as  Eleanor  had 
predicted.  For  a  few  minutes  Paul  dutifully  tried  to  fix 
his  attention  on  the  discourse,  but  he  soon  gave  over 
the  effort  and  fell  to  watching  her.  He  noticed  her 
looking  queerly  toward  a  retired  corner  in  one  of  the 
galleries.  He  followed  the  line  of  her  gaze,  and 
gasped  in  astonishment. 

"Ye  gods !  Kathleen  has  brought  Bob  to  church !" 

"Is  Miss  Flinn  with  him  ?"  she  whispered.  "Which 
one?" 

"To  his  right.  I'll  let  you  into  a  secret.  Kathleen 
is  in  love  with  Bob." 

"Indeed!"  she  said  indifferently. 

But  several  times  during  the  service  she  caught  her 
gaze  straying  from  the  pulpit  to  the  man  in  the  gal- 
lery and  the  sweet- faced  woman  beside  him. 

As  he  was  leaving  her,  Eleanor  said : 

"Will  you  take  me  to  call  on  Miss  Flinn?" 

"Gladly.  I'm  sure  you  and  she  will  become  good 
friends." 

For  the  next  few  days  Paul  saw  Eleanor  daily.  She 
was  very  kind  to  him  and  he  was  therefore  lifted  into 
the  seventh  heaven.  The  generosity  of  the  hopeful 
lover  led  him  to  throw  himself  more  enthusiastically 
into  Bob's  campaign.  But  Bob  was  very  busy  and 
there  was  little  opportunity  for  anything  but  busi- 
ness conversation;  Eleanor  Gilbert's  name  was  never 
mentioned  between  them.  Nevertheless,  Bob  was 
not  so  busy  but  that  she  was  often  in  his  thoughts. 
It  was  at  this  time  that  he  finally  decided  on  a  plan 


TEMPTATIONS  227 

which  had  been  suggested  to  him  by  Sanger's  visit. 
This  decision  led  to  several  long-distance  telephone 
calls  between  him  and  Dunmeade  and  Murchell. 

Paul  took  Eleanor  to  call  on  Kathleen  early  in  the 
week.  His  prophecy  that  they  would  become  good 
friends  was  not  fulfilled,  at  least  immediately.  Kath- 
leen, with  a  self-consciousness  foreign  to  her,  saw  in 
Eleanor's  honest  efforts  to  please  her  only  patronage. 
And  Eleanor,  chilled,  was  convinced  that  the  older 
woman  disliked  her.  Kathleen  returned  the  call  a  few 
days  later,  but  at  that  time  Eleanor  had  left  the  city 
to  spend  the  week-end  with  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  FORCE 

time  will  come  when  you  will  be  forced  to 
-  join  with  us,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  had  once  pre- 
dicted to  Bob.  And  the  prediction  had  come  true. 

But  not  alone  because  of  the  exigencies  of  his  politi- 
cal situation.  If  it  had  been  a  question  of  political 
strategy,  I  doubt  that  he  would  ever  have  gone  to 
Dunmeade  or  Murchell.  Even  Mrs.  Dunmeade, 
keenly  as  she  had  analyzed  him,  did  not  realize  the 
daring  and  sweep  of  his  ambition.  Left  to  his  orig- 
inal plan  of  campaign,  he  would  have  waited  until  the 
governor's  political  necessities  compelled  the  latter  to 
make  the  overtures ;  then  the  alliance  would  have  been 
effected  on  terms  bound  to  insure  Bob's  ultimate  mas- 
tery. Just  what  sort  of  history  would  have  been  writ- 
ten under  Bob's  bossship,  as  he  first  dreamed  it,  we 
need  not  surmise.  For  another  factor  had  entered 
into  his  calculations — Eleanor  Gilbert. 

As  the  days  went  by  and  the  change  in  Paul — 
attributable  to  but  one  cause — became  more  and  more 
manifest,  and  his  own  resentment  against  her  in- 
fluence over  the  younger  man  bit  deeper,  Bob  aban- 
doned the  crude,  callow  reasoning  with  which  he 
had  defended  his  opposition  to  her.  He  admitted 
frankly  to  himself  that  his  opposition  sprang  from  his 

228 


THE  FORCE  229 

jealous  love  of  Paul  and  his  strong  dislike  of  her — 
he  so  called  it.  For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  decide 
which  was  the  stronger  motive.  Also  he  bowed  to  her 
taunt  that  he  had  no  weapons  to  match  hers.  Never- 
theless it  was  not  in  him  to  yield,  and  he  resolved  to 
sacrifice  a  part  of  his  ambition  that  he  might  offer  a 
chromo  with  his  pound  of  tea. 

"Some  day  I'm  thinkin'  ye'll  love  somebody — hard. 
Thin  God  pity  ye !"  Patrick  Flinn  had  prophesied. 

Therefore,  with  little  joy  in  his  heart,  he  went  to 
the  capital  for  his  interview  with  Dunmeade  and 
Murchell. 

Twenty-four  hours  in  the  governor's  mansion  made 
Eleanor  regret  her  visit.  The  beautiful  sympathy 
and  simplicity  of  the  Dunmeade  household,  by  its  very 
contrast  recalling  her  own  unhappy  marriage,  made 
her  life  seem  unutterably  empty.  The  afternoon  of 
her  second  day  at  the  capital  she  had  gone  to  Mrs. 
Dunmeade's  sitting-room  and  had  surprised  the  gov- 
ernor there.  He  had  stolen  away  from  his  office  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  was  romping  with  the  children, 
while  his  wife  looked  smilingly  on. 

Eleanor,  unnoticed  and  feeling  her  presence  in  the 
pretty  little  family  group  a  profanation,  tiptoed  back 
to  her  room,  where  she  brooded  disconsolately  on  her 
loneliness.  Not  until  the  governor's  footsteps  sounded 
along  the  hallway  did  she  venture  to  return  to  Mrs. 
Dunmeade.  The  youngest  child,  a  little  boy  just  learn- 
ing to  walk,  was  rubbing  his  eyes  sleepily,  and  Eleanor, 
taking  him  into  her  arms,  crooned  a  slumber  song  to 
him,  while  Mrs.  Dunmeade  sewed. 


230         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"I  always  make  the  little  ones'  clothes  myself,"  Mrs. 
Dunmeade  explained. 

Eleanor  nodded  understandingly.  "I  know.  I 
would  myself,  if  I  had  babies  of  my  own.  And  I 
wouldn't  leave  them  to  a  nurse."  She  held  the  little 
sleeper  closer.  "I  understand  now  how  you  could 
leave  your  beautiful  home  and  all  your  old  friends  to 
come  here." 

"It  was  a  little  hard  at  first,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  said 
softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  baby's  slumber,  "but  I 
soon  got  over  that.  We've  been  here  six  years  now 
and  I'll  hate  to  leave  it.  I've  had  John  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  our  old  friends,  the  best  of  them  at  least, 
visit  us  often.  Occasionally,  too,  we  meet  very  inter- 
esting people.  By  the  way,  we  are  to  have  one  such 
for  dinner  this  evening." 

"A  personage?" 

"I  think  we  may  call  him  that,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
smiled.  "One  of  your  city's  politicians,  Robert  Mc- 
Adoo." 

Eleanor  almost  dropped  the  child  in  her  astonish- 
ment. "Robert  McAdoo!" 

"You  know  him,  then?"  Mrs.  Dunmeade's  ques- 
tion convicted  her  of  duplicity,  since  Paul  Remington 
had  written  her,  confiding  to  her  a  little  of  his  trouble. 

The  child  stirred  uneasily,  and  Eleanor  hummed  a 
few  bars  of  the  slumber  song  before  she  answered. 

"Yes.  I've  met  him  three  times  in  my  life.  And 
he  hates  me." 

"He  hates  you?    Why?" 

Eleanor  laughed  shortly.  "He  thinks  I'm  in  love 
with  Paul  Remington  and  am  trying  to  break  his — 
Mr.  McAdoo's,  I  mean — influence  over  him." 


THE  FORCE  231 

"Well,  are  you?" 

"Which?" 

"In  love?" 

If  the  question  had  come  from  any  one  else  or  at 
another  time,  Eleanor  would  probably  have  laughed 
it  off.  But  she  was  in  a  mood  for  confidences.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I'd  like  to  be." 

"And  the  other?" 

Eleanor  nodded  vindictively.  "I'd  like  that,  too. 
He's  so  sure  of  himself  and  so  arrogant.  He  stirs  all 
the  wickedness  in  me — there's  a  lot  of  it — to  life.  I'd 
like  to  hurt  him.  Or,  at  least,  I'd  like  to  prove  that 
I  could  if  I  chose.  Isn't  that  childish  ?" 

Mrs.  Dunmeade  shook  her  head  gravely.  "My  dear, 
never  tempt  a  man  you  love  to  a  dishonorable  act,  even 
though  you  hate  another." 

"But  I'm  not  sure  I  love  the  one — in  fact,  I'm 
almost  sure  I  don't — and  I  really  dislike  the  other." 

"Then  why  do  it?" 

"Sheer  deviltry,  I  suppose.  It's  all  his  fault,"  she 
added,  almost  petulantly.  "If  only  he  would  behave 
as  a  normal  man  and  withdraw  his  gratuitous  enmity, 
I  should  be  willing  to  leave  him  in  peace.  I  confess 
my  vanity." 

"Then  by  being  normal  you  mean  succumbing  to 
your  charms  like  other  men  ?  But,  my  dear,  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo  isn't  a  normal  man.  Which  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  he,  an  ex-mill-hand,  receives  so  much  thought 
from  a  woman  who,  I  remember,  as  a  girl  judged  all 
men  by  the  standards  of  gentility,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
smiled  into  her  sewing. 

Eleanor  winced.    "I've  been  effectually  cured  of  my 


232         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

snobbery,"  she  laughed  contemptuously.  "No  Amer- 
ican who  has  ever  lived  abroad,  and  especially  we 
nouveaux  riches  trying  to  break  into  society,  can  com- 
fortably hold  to  his  reverence  for  breeding  and  pedi- 
gree." 

"Still,  Robert  McAdoo  leaves  much  to  be  desired," 
Mrs.  Dunmeade  demurred. 

Eleanor  assumed  a  carefully  judicial  air.  "Per- 
haps. Yet  one  feels  that  possibly  down  under  the 
iron  of  his  exterior  he  has  a  finer  side — if  one  only 
had  the  patience  to  dig  for  it.  His  friendship  for 
Paul  Remington  proves  that  he  is  capable  of  the  finer 
things,  don't  you  think?" 

"Well,  perhaps,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  agreed  with  ap- 
parent reluctance. 

"O,  undoubtedly!"  Eleanor  insisted  positively. 
Again  Mrs.  Dunmeade  smiled  into  her  sewing. 

"But  we  shouldn't  expect  too  much  of  a  man  who 
had  his  start  in  life,"  she  suggested.  "You  know — " 
And  Mrs.  Dunmeade  proceeded  to  give  Eleanor  the 
intimate  account  of  Bob's  childhood,  which  she  had 
received  from  Paul,  and  which  Paul  had  had  from 
the  Flinns.  The  story  lost  nothing  from  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade's  telling. 

"I  never  heard  that  before,"  Eleanor  said  thought- 
fully, but  made  no  further  comment. 

"I  often  think  that  what  he  needs  is  to  find  some 
good,  strong  woman  who  can  persuade  him  to  fall  in 
love  with  her.  Kathleen  Flinn,  for  example." 

"Surely  not  Miss  Flinn!"  Eleanor  exclaimed  with 
a  resumption  of  the  judicial  manner.  "I've  met  her, 
and  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  be  suitable.  She  strikes  me 
as  a  very  spiritless  and  commonplace  woman." 


THE  FORCE  233 

"You  have  met  her  often,  then?"  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
queried  with  a  smile. 

"Dear,  don't  be  ironical.  You  see,"  Eleanor  ex- 
plained with  what  was  a  convincing  air — to  herself,  at 
least,  "I'm  trying  to  justify  my  hostility  to  him.  I'd 
hate  to  take  even  a  hostile  interest  in  a  man  who  could 
fall  in  love  with  Miss  Flinn.  I  don't  like  her." 

"O,  is  that  it?" 

Many  another  woman  would  have  lectured  Eleanor 
on  the  dangers  of  mischief-making.  But  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade refrained.  There  are,  so  scientists  assure  us, 
certain  tests  by  which  the  presence  of  all  physical, 
mental  and  psychic  conditions  may  be  determined. 
And  that  afternoon  she  reached  a  conclusion  which  I 
do  not  set  down  here,  because  you  would  deem  it  pre- 
posterous. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  governor  came  in,  accom- 
panied by  Murchell,  who  had  left  the  municipal  cam- 
paign in  Adelphia  to  be  at  the  conference  with  Robert 
McAdoo.  Eleanor  once  more  marveled  at  the  spirit 
of  the  Dunmeade  household  when  she  saw  the  quiet 
but  unconcealed  love  with  which  the  great  politician 
was  received  into  their  little  circle.  She  did  not  know 
that  the  most  reviled  and  feared  politician  of  his  gen- 
eration, personally  directing  the  hottest  fight  of  his 
career,  though  mortal  illness  had  seized  upon  his  worn- 
out  body,  was  making  his  last  atonement  for  twenty 
years  of  misused  power.  Part  of  Murchell's  atone- 
ment was  that  his  good  works  would  never  be  recog- 
nized, while  his  evil  deeds  would  be  remembered  for 
decades.  Yet  there  was  that  in  the  man  which  com- 
manded from  Eleanor  a  profound  respect  such  as  she 
had  never  given  any  man,  even  her  uncle  or  Dun- 


234 

meade,  and  she  made  an  effort  to  win  his  good  opinion. 
And  the  old  man  took  her  into  his  heart  at  once. 

Dusk  had  fallen  when  the  little  group  broke  up  to 
dress  for  dinner.  Mrs.  Dunmeade  went  with  Eleanor 
to  the  latter's  room. 

"How  pretty  may  we  look  to-night?"  Eleanor  asked 
smilingly. 

"Our  very  prettiest,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  smiled  back. 

"But  won't  Mr.  McAdoo— " 

Mrs.  Dunmeade  interrupted  laughingly.  "My  dear, 
you  don't  know  the  American  man.  If  you've  never 
seen  Robert  McAdoo  in  the  evening,  I  promise  you  a 
surprise.  You'll  forget  the  mill-hand  and  tough  poli- 
tician." 

"Then  he  is  a  tough  politician  ?" 

"Judge  for  yourself  to-night."  And  Mrs.  Dunmeade, 
with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  left  Eleanor  alone.  The 
latter  proceeded  to  make  a  very  careful  toilet. 

When  she  descended  to  the  library,  she  found 
Murchell  there  alone.  He  greeted  her  with  a  courtly 
bow. 

"Will  you  allow  an  old  man  to  say  that  you  are  a 
very  beautiful  young  lady,  Mrs.  Gilbert?" 

She  dropped  him  a  courtesy.  "I  assure  you,  I'm  not 
half  so  good  as  I'm  good  to  look  at." 

"But  I  expect  you  to  be.  You  mustn't  disappoint 
me." 

She  shook  her  head,  laughing,  and  promptly  changed 
the  subject. 

"Who  are  these  dignified  gentlemen  looking  down 
on  us?  Governors?" 

"Yes.  This  is — "  And  beginning  with  the  por- 
trait of  the  state's  first  governor,  a  distinguished  revo- 


THE  FORCE  235 

lutionary  soldier  and  statesman,  he  guided  Eleanor 
around  the  room,  telling  her  briefly  what  each  man 
had  done  or  failed  to  do.  It  was  not  always  an  honor- 
able tale.  The  last,  hung  in  an  obscure  corner,  was 
Dunmeade's,  painted  and  hung  during  his  first  term. 
Eleanor  studied  it  in  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

"He's  a  good  man,  isn't  he  ?"  she  asked  at  last. 

Murchell  answered  with  deep  feeling.  "The  best  I 
know — and  the  most  misunderstood." 

She  turned  abruptly  to  face  him.  "Will  you  tell 
me  what  it  is  in  this  household  that  I  have  never 
known  elsewhere  ?  There's  something  here  that  makes 
me  feel  so  miserably  small  and  mean." 

"Love  and  sacrifice,"  Murchell  answered  quietly. 

"Love  of  self  and  sacrifice  of  others  are  the  love  and 
sacrifice  I  have  most  often  met  with,  Mr.  Murchell. 
And  such  people  seem  to  get  the  most  out  of  life,"  she 
said  bitterly. 

"When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,"  he  said  gravely, 
"you  will  realize  that  love  of  others  is  the  richest  thing 
in  the  world,  and  sacrifice  for  others  the  highest,  and 
that  in  both  we  find  the  truest  happiness.  That  sounds 
like  trite  preaching.  But  few  of  us  realize  how  true  it 
is — until  it  is  too  late." 

"Not  many  of  us  are  made  of  the  stuff  to  reach  such 
heights." 

"Only  great  souls  are  capable  of  great  love  or  great 
sacrifice."  And  he  added  thoughtfully :  "Such  as  the 
man  we  are  waiting  for.  If  he  could  only  learn  the 
lesson  John  Dunmeade  and  his  wife  have  learned,  he 
would  be  one  of  the  greatest  men  of  our  day." 

She  started.  "Surely  not  Robert  McAdoo!  I 
thought  he  was  merely  a  type  of  our  corrupt  city  poli- 


236         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

ticians,  a  little  more  able  than  most  of  them,  but  no 
better." 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  "I  fear  you  have  been 
listening  to  false  prophets,  young  lady." 

"At  any  rate,  the  seed  of  your  gospel  will  hardly 
find  fertile  soil  in  him." 

But  before  Murchell  could  answer,  the  governor  and 
his  wife  entered. 

"Is  it  a  secret?"  the  latter  asked  gaily.  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade  was  very  happy  that  evening. 

"Mr.  Murchell  has  been  telling  me  about  our  gov- 
ernors," Eleanor  answered,  concealing  her  disappoint- 
ment over  the  interruption.  "I  wonder  whose  picture 
will  be  hung  here  next  ?" 

She  saw  a  quick,  meaning  glance  pass  between 
Murchell  and  the  governor's  wife.  But  for  answer 
Mrs.  Dunmeade  merely  laughed  and  said  evasively, 
"O,  one  never  knows  what  a  day  may  bring  forth  in 
politics." 

With  a  pang  Eleanor  remembered  that  every  time 
she  had  asked  a  question,  the  answer  to  which  involved 
a  hint  of  the  reformers'  plans,  Mrs.  Dunmeade  had 
made  a  similar  reply. 

"They  treat  me  as  though  I  were  a  stupid  child,"  she 
thought  resentfully,  "or  an  enemy,  incapable  of  sym- 
pathy with  them."  And  she  allowed  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
to  steer  the  conversation  into  other  channels. 

They  were  still  chatting  before  the  governor's  por- 
trait when  the  tinkle  of  the  door-bell  was  heard.  Ele- 
anor, with  amused  expectancy,  stepped  back  into  the 
corner  where  she  could  not  be  seen  by  Bob  at  once. 

He  entered  and  Eleanor,  warned  as  she  had  been  by 
Mrs.  Dunmeade,  could  hardly  repress  a  start  of  sur- 


THE  FORCE  237 

prise.  It  was  not  altogether  the  change  in  appearance 
wrought  by  his  formal  attire — nowadays  Bob  was  al- 
ways careful  in  the  matter  of  dress,  for  the  same  rea- 
son that  he  kept  his  body  in  magnificent  trim  by  regular 
exercise — even  more  was  it  his  manner  as  he  received 
the  greetings  of  his  hosts  and  Murchell.  There  was 
here  indeed  no  hint  of  the  uncouth  mill-hand  or  of  the 
arrogant  but  keenly  alert  boss  who  had  dominated  the 
convention,  or  yet  of  the  militant  caller  who  had  gone 
to  her  to  order  her  out  of  his  friend's  life  and  his  own 
as  well.  His  manner,  as  he  met  their  cordial  wel- 
come, was  neither  repelling  nor  eager,  but  rather  the 
quiet  dignity  of  a  man  who  was  sure  of  his  footing. 
Eleanor  found  herself  rejoicing  that  she  had  not  at- 
tempted to  patronize  him  during  his  call. 

"I  believe  you  have  met  Mrs.  Gilbert,"  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade  said,  when  the  first  greetings  were  over. 

Bob  whirled  sharply.  As  he  faced  her,  the  blood 
rushed  to  his  cheek  and  his  eyes  glinted  in  angry  sur- 
prise. In  an  instant,  however,  all  trace  of  feeling  had 
passed  and,  bowing  slightly,  he  answered  with  perfect 
composure. 

''Twice,  I  believe.  I  hardly  expected  to  meet  you 
here,  Mrs.  Gilbert." 

"Three  times,  I'm  sure,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "It's 
very  stupid,  but  really  all  I  can  think  of  is  that  trite 
old  saying  that  the  world  is  very  small,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

Bob's  sense  of  humor  came  to  his  aid,  as  he  looked 
at  the  woman  to  cast  whom  and  her  influence  out  of 
his  life  and  plans  he  had  come  to  find  a  weapon.  He 
laughed. 

"I  should  say  that  the  world's  size  depends  upon 
whether  you  are  trying  to  find  or  avoid  a  person." 


238         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Her  face  lighted  up  mirthfully.  "Come,  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo.  We  are  under  the  white  flag  here.  I  appeal  to 
the  governor.  Cousin,  to  my  rescue,  for  the  sake  of 
your  household's  peace.  Mr.  McAdoo  and  I  always 
quarrel." 

"Then  I  solemnly  declare  a  truce,"  laughed  the  gov- 
ernor. "But  I  doubt  her  need  of  my  protection.  I 
fancy  this  young  lady  is  quite  capable  of  caring  for 
herself,  eh,  Mr.  McAdoo  ?" 

"Quite!" 

"That's  very  generous,"  she  smiled.  "It  speaks  well 
for  a  successful  truce,  I  hope?"  And  she  held  out 
her  hand  with  pretended  hesitation. 

His  hesitation  was  genuine,  but,  yielding  to  the  ne- 
cessity, he  took  her  slender,  white  hand  into  his  big, 
strong  one — the  hand,  as  it  flashed  across  her  mind, 
that  had  once  snatched  her  from  a  hideous  death.  Per- 
haps her  smile  became  more  kindly  than  she  intended, 
for  he  dropped  her  hand  as  though  it  had  been  a  hot 
coal. 

"And  now,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  said  promptly,  "peace 
having  been  established  all  around,  let  us  go  in  to  din- 
ner." She  took  Bob's  arm  and  led  the  way  into  the 
dining-room. 

At  dinner  Bob  sat  opposite  Eleanor,  to  his  consider- 
able discomfort  at  first.  He  may  have  possessed,  as 
Mrs.  Dunmeade  had  said,  the  American  trait  of  adapt- 
ability, but  to  sit  in  the  friendly  intimacy  of  a  dinner 
table,  facing  a  woman  to  whom  he  felt  extremely  un- 
friendly, was  an  experience  to  which  he  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  reconcile  himself.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
saw  this,  for  she  guided  the  talk  to  subjects  which  al- 
lowed him  to  be  the  audience.  And  after  a  while  his 


THE  FORCE  239 

discomfort  was  forgotten  in  his  interest  in  the  conver- 
sation and  in  his  covert  study  of  Eleanor.  Especially 
in  his  study  of  Eleanor.  He  watched  her  critically, 
that  he  might  learn,  if  possible,  the  secret  of  her  influ- 
ence over  Paul.  His  study  forced  him  to  admit,  very 
grudgingly,  that  any  man  might  find  it  hard  to  resist 
her  charm. 

"Any  man  of  Paul's  temperament,  that  is,"  he  cor- 
rected himself  hastily.  And  he  began  to  doubt  the 
success  of  his  mission  to  the  capital  in  its  ultimate 
purpose. 

Finally  Mrs.  Dunmeade  turned  to  Bob.  "Tell  us, 
how  is  your  campaign  progressing?" 

"There  is  considerable  opposition." 

"If  your  friends'  good  wishes  count  for  anything," 
she  said  kindly,  "you  will  win.  We're  all  anxious  to 
see  you  elected." 

Bob  looked  at  her  in  genuine  surprise.  There  was 
no  doubting  the  sincerity  of  her  words;  nor  was  her 
interest  to  be  attributed  solely  to  her  husband's  ambi- 
tions. Also  he  was  surprised  to  feel  a  faint  stirring 
of  gratitude  for  her  friendliness. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  simply. 

"You  will  win,"  Murchell  put  in  confidently. 

"I  expect  to,"  Bob  replied  with  equal  confidence. 

"One  good  indication,"  Murchell  added,  "is  the  vi- 
ciousness  of  their  newspaper  attacks.  They  overstep 
all  bounds.  That  court-house  story,  for  instance.  I 
personally  know  that  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"No.    I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"If  necessary,"  Murchell  volunteered.  "I'll  be  glad 
to  give  an  interview  to  that  effect." 

"What's  the  use?     The  people  who  believe  the 


240         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

story  won't  believe  my  denial,  or  yours  either  for  that 
matter." 

"But  I  should  think,"  said  Eleanor,  who  had  read 
the  libel  in  question — and  believed  it — addressing  Bob 
for  the  first  time  since  they  had  sat  down,  "that  such 
stories  would  hurt  your  reputation  and  therefore  your 
chance  of  winning." 

"As  a  politician,  I  consider  a  clean  reputation  a  val- 
uable asset." 

"Don't  you  think  silence  often  has  the  effect  of  con- 
fession? Surely  people  aren't  so  unreasonable  as  to 
refuse  to  weigh  a  denial  ?" 

Bob  laughed  unaffectedly.  "They  wouldn't  have  the 
chance.  The  newspapers  that  published  the  story 
wouldn't  publish  my  denial.  And  we  Americans  read 
only  one  newspaper — the  one  that  takes  our  side." 

"But,"  she  insisted  warmly,  "such  things  are  unfair. 
Aren't  there  any  laws  regulating  newspapers  ?" 

Bob  laughed  again.  "Very  few.  The  freedom  of 
the  press  must  be  preserved." 

"But  freedom  doesn't  mean  license." 

"To  the  partizan  press  it  does." 

"Surely  there  must  be  some  way  to  stop  such  sto- 
ries?" 

"What  business  is  it  of  yours?"  Bob  wanted  to  say 
roughly.  Instead  he  said  grimly:  "Yes.  Bribe  the 
owners." 

"Who  are  the  owners  of  the  paper  that  published  the 
court-house  story  ?"  she  asked,  not  seeing  or  not  under- 
standing the  danger  signals  flashed  across  to  her  by 
Mrs.  Dunmeade. 

Bob  was  tempted.  To  tell  her  the  truth,  to  shame 
and  hurt  her  before  her  friends — it  would  have  been 


THE  FORCE  241 

an  incense  of  sweet  savor  to  his  hostility.  But  he 
caught  Mrs.  Dunmeade's  pleading  look. 

"The  opposition,"  he  said  carelessly.  He  was  repaid 
by  a  grateful  look  from  his  hostess. 

"However,"  the  governor  put  in  hastily,  "in  your 
campaign  the  newspapers  don't  count  for  so  much  as 
usual,  if  I  may  judge  from  a  distance.  The  people  of 
your  city  lately  have  been  doing  their  own  thinking. 
You're  to  be  congratulated,  Mr.  McAdoo,  on  having 
an  aroused  people  with  you." 

"You're  to  be  congratulated  on  having  aroused  your 
people,"  Murchell  corrected. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  said.  "Because  it  is  their  in- 
terest in  your  fight  that  has  made  your  people  think  for 
themselves." 

"How  do  you  arouse  a  people,  Mr.  McAdoo?"  Ele- 
anor inquired  quizzically. 

"Denounce  the  other  side,"  he  said  shortly. 

"Then  in  politics  one  depends  for  success  on  the 
faults  of  the  other  side,  rather  than  on  one's  own  vir- 
tues?" 

"Precisely." 

"No,  no,"  the  governor  protested  kindly.  "Mr. 
McAdoo  isn't  just  to  himself.  The  truth  is,  while  he 
has  been  at  the  head  of  the  Steel  City  organization — " 

"Is  that  a  polite  name  for  boss?"  Eleanor  inter- 
rupted. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is,"  the  governor  returned  pleasantly. 
"I  was  going  to  say  that  under  Mr.  McAdoo's  leader- 
ship the  district  attorney's  office  in  your  county  has 
been  most  efficiently  and  honestly  conducted,  and  the 
present  city  administration  is  the  cleanest,  most  eco- 
nomical the  city  has  ever  known." 


242         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Why,  that  almost  makes  you  a  friend  of  the  peo- 
ple," Eleanor  said,  looking  across  at  Bob.  He  knew 
that  she  was  thinking  of  their  conversation  the  day  he 
had  called  on  her,  and  he  stiffened. 

"No,"  he  replied  coldly.  "It  only  proves  I'm  not 
fool  enough  to  ask  the  public  to  support  me  for  noth- 
ing." 

"O,  I  see,"  she  said  with  an  air  extremely  irritating 
to  Bob,  who  began  to  find  the  restraint  of  his  position 
very  irksome.  "You  offer  them  the  other  side's  faults 
and  lower  taxes  by  way  of  a  bribe.  So  they  make  you 
boss." 

"You  don't  know  much  about  politics,  Mrs.  Gilbert," 
he  said  with  a  touch  of  his  customary  curtness. 
"There's  no  such  thing  as  a  boss  of  the  people.  A  man 
may  boss  a  government  because  of  personal  hold  on 
the  officers,  but  he  can't  call  himself  boss  of  a  people 
who  can  throw  him  aside  whenever  they  please." 

"Then  what  is  the  secret  of  your  success  ?"  she  per- 
sisted. "Why  are  you  so  sure  of  being  elected?  As 
you  say,  I'm  very  ignorant  of  politics." 

"Because  I  play  the  better  game." 

Suddenly  Murchell,  who  had  taken  little  part  in  the 
conversation,  leaned  forward  and  leveled  an  accusing 
finger  at  Bob. 

"That's  not  true,"  he  said  sternly.  "It's  false  to  the 
people  of  your  city  and  to  yourself.  You're  the 
shrewdest  and  boldest  politician  in  this  state.  But 
your  knowledge  of  the  game  alone  would  never  make 
you  mayor  of  your  city.  Nor  will  it  be  due  to  the  fact 
that  you  are  a  boss  with  an  ironclad  machine  at  your 
back.  You're  more  than  a  boss.  You  have  made  your- 
self the  leader  of  the  people  in  their  fight  against  the 


THE  FORCE  243 

Railroad-Steel  trust.  Therefore  you  will  win.  Not 
the  master  politician  or  the  boss  of  a  machine  will  be 
elected,  but  Robert  McAdoo,  leader  of  the  people.  The 
responsibility  will  be  yours,  but  it  will  not  be  your  vic- 
tory, but  the  victory  of  the  cause  you  represent,  the 
victory  of  the  Force." 

"The  Force?"  Bob  and  Eleanor  exclaimed  together. 

Murchell's  hand  dropped  to  the  table.  His  lean, 
haggard  face  showed  a  red  spot  in  each  cheek.  "Yes, 
the  great  Social  Force  in  whose  grip  we  all  are.  The 
Force  that,  working  in  all  of  us  from  the  first  man 
down,  has  made  us  dependent  on  one  another  for  hap- 
piness, for  life — brethren,  children  of  one  Father.  The 
Force  that  makes  the  man,  the  social  unit,  find  his  hap- 
piness, his  welfare,  in  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  his 
brethren,  of  society.  The  Force  that  has  given  John 
Dunmeade  strength  to  struggle,  libeled  and  misunder- 
stood, against  those  who  defy  this  principle  of  the  uni- 
verse. The  Force  that  has  placed  in  you — forgive  my 
bluntness — the  crassest  egoist  I  have  ever  known,  the 
spirit  to  defy  and  fight  the  same  enemy  of  your  breth- 
ren. The  Force  that  makes  you  and  John  Dunmeade, 
by  grace  of  a  common  enemy,  necessary  to  each  other, 
and  makes  you  both  necessary  to  the  people  of  this 
state.  The  Force  that  will  give  you  the  victory." 

The  old  politician  stopped,  his  black  eyes  gleaming 
fiercely  at  Bob  through  the  shaggy  eyebrows.  Of  what 
was  going  on  within  him,  Bob's  masklike  expression 
gave  no  hint  as  he  met  Murchell's  gaze  impassively. 
He  shifted  his  glance  to  the  others  and  found  that  he, 
not  Murchell,  was  the  target  for  their  eyes.  Upon 
Dunmeade's  gentle  face  was  written  the  exaltation  of 
the  martyr  who  sees  into  the  beyond  and  beholds  his 


244         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

triumph;  upon  his  wife's  countenance  both  triumph 
and  understanding.  Eleanor  was  looking  at  him  with 
an  expression  Bob  could  not  understand,  though  he 
knew  that,  for  once,  it  was  not  hostile.  He  turned 
again  to  Murchell,  an  ugly  glitter  in  his  eyes. 

"Do  you  add,  the  Force  that  led  you,  the  first  of 
the  school  of  corporation  politicians,  to  create  the  very 
conditions  we  are  fighting?" 

Murchell  did  not  flinch.  "No,  I  have  been  of  those 
who  abused  power,  and  therefore  I  have  been  the 
greatest  criminal  of  my  day.  I  add,  the  Force  that 
will  lead  you  two  to  repair  the  damage  I  have  done." 

Bob's  mouth  twisted  into  his  sardonic  grin.  "It's  a 
hopeless  theory,  Mr.  Murchell.  You  make  us  all  blind 
automatons.  You  take  away  from  me — the  crassest 
egoist  you  have  ever  known — my  individuality,  my 
reason  for  existence,  my  Self.  And  you  give  me  in 
exchange — a  species  of  sublimated  socialism." 

"Yes,"  Murchell  said  quietly,  "the  socialism  of 
Christ  when  He  commanded  'Love  thy  neighbor  as 
thyself.' ' 

"Your  Force  is  as  inexorable  as  God !" 

"The  Force  is  God,"  Murchell  answered  quietly. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  said  gently.  "For  God  is 
Love." 

Bob  turned  to  her  and  the  sneer  faded  from  his 
mouth.  "What  does  the  Force  give  us  in  exchange 
for  our  selfishness  ?  What  have  I,  reduced  to  an  atom- 
aton,  to  make  life  and  action  worth  while?" 

"The  happiness  of  seeing  your  fellows  happier,"  she 
replied.  "And  Love." 

He  broke  into  a  rasping,  mirthless  laugh.    "Pardon 


THE  FORCE  245 

me,"  he  said,  recovering  himself.     "I'm  not  laughing 
at  you  or  your  Force,  but  at  a  joke  I  had  forgotten. 
I  was  introduced  to  your  Force  two  months  ago." 
"No,  my  friend,"  Murchell  said;  "at  your  birth." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  ALLIANCE 

WHEN  the  men  were  alone,   Bob  proceeded  to 
explain  his  visit. 

"Now  that  we  have  reached  a  verdict  convicting  me 
of  conspiring  to  uplift  humanity,"  he  began,  "let's  get 
down  to  business,  if  you're  ready  to  hear  me." 

"We  are  ready." 

"The  other  day,"  Bob  went  on,  "I  had  an  interview 
with  Henry  Sanger,  Jr.  The  interview  was  at  his 
request.  He  is  backing  Larkin.  Larkin  doesn't  know 
it,  but  there's  no  doubt  about  it.  Sanger  was  very 
frank.  He  informed  me  that  he  and  his  'fellow  invest- 
ors' intend  to  break  with  you  openly  and  finally  and 
to  select  the  next  governor,  legislature  and  senator. 
This  probably  isn't  news  to  you  ?" 

"No,  it  isn't  news,"  Murchell  said. 

"He  was  very  frank,  because  he  believes  they'll  have 
no  trouble  beating  you." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen.'* 

"He  came  to  propose  that  I  join  with  them.  He  held 
out  big  inducements.  He  offered  to  contribute  to  my 
campaign  fund,  also  to  place  the  next  governorship 
under  my  control  and  to  put  me  at  the  head  of  the  new 
state  organization.  Subject  to  certain  limitations,  of 
course." 

246 


THE  ALLIANCE  247 

Murchell  smiled  knowingly.  "Sanger  must  be  very 
hopeless  of  beating  you." 

"That's  what  I  told  him,"  Bob  laughed. 

"What  did  you  answer?"  the  governor  put  in 
eagerly. 

"I  refused." 

"Why?"  Murchell  demanded  sharply. 

"Not  because  I  am  a  votary  of  your  Social  Force, 
but  because  I  am  the  crassest  egoist  you  have  ever 
known,"  Bob  said  grimly. 

"Never  mind  your  motives  just  now,"  Dunmeade 
said  impatiently.  "Go  on." 

"I  further  told  him  that  I  proposed  to  line  up  with 
you."  Bob  paused,  looking  at  the  others  inquiringly. 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  leave  your  campaign  merely 
to  tell  us  this  ?"  Murchell  said. 

"Xo.  As  I  told  Sanger,  I  choose  to  join  you  people. 
But,  of  course,  my  doing  so  depends  upon  certain  con- 
ditions." He  paused  again.  "As  I  suggested  over  the 
'phone." 

"And  your  conditions  ?" 

"I  must  name  the  next  candidate  for  governor,"  Bob 
said  coolly. 

"That,"  Murchell  said  decidedly,  "we  can't  consent 
to,  unless  your  candidate  meets  with  our  approval. 
Have  you  some  one  in  particular  in  mind  ?" 

"Yes.     Remington." 

"Paul  Remington!"  Dunmeade  exclaimed.  "I  had 
suspected —  He  paused. 

"His  ambition  must  fly  high,"  Murchell  said,  look- 
ing at  Bob  in  surprise. 

"No.    He  knows  nothing  of  the  object  of  this  visit. 


248         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

I  don't  suppose  he  has  even  thought  of  himself  in  con- 
nection with  the  next  governorship." 

"Nor  am  I  prepared  for  the  suggestion,"  Murchell 
said  thoughtfully.  "There  are  several  things  to  con- 
sider. First,  can  he  be  elected?" 

"He  stands  as  good  a  chance  as  any  one  we  could 
pick.  He's  the  most  popular  man  in  the  Steel  City. 
He  has  a  clean  personal  record.  He's  well  and  favor- 
ably known  over  the  state.  He  has  spoken  in  every 
county.  He's  a  good  campaigner.  And  his  youth  is 
in  his  favor." 

"Then,  can  we  trust  him?"  Murchell  demanded, 
looking  at  Bob  keenly. 

"Yes,"  Bob  answered  firmly,  almost  too  firmly, 
Murchell  thought. 

"Well,"  Murchell  said  slowly,  "you  may  be  right. 
But,  frankly,  while  I  like  and  admire  Remington,  I 
haven't  absolute  confidence  in  him.  He's  brilliant  and 
enthusiastic,  but  he  lacks  stability  of  character,  and  I 
doubt  if  he  really  has  a  high  conception  of  political 
responsibility.  The  next  governor  will  have  need  of 
these  qualities.  As  the  present  governor  has  had  need 
of  them."  He  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Dunmeade's 
.arm. 

"But  this  isn't  a  matter  for  hasty  decision,"  he  con- 
tinued. "Is  there  any  reason  why  we  should  give  an 
immediate  answer  ?" 

"Yes.  For  private  reasons  which  I  don't  care  to 
discuss,  the  matter  must  be  settled  before  I  return 
home  to-night." 

Murchell  looked  at  Bob  thoughtfully  before  he  an- 
swered. "What  guaranty  have  we  that  he  will  play 
fair  with  us  ?" 


THE  ALLIANCE  249 

"If  we  choose  him,  I'll  be  back  of  him,"  Bob  said, 
meeting  Murchell's  glance  steadily.  "And — I  know 
him  better  than  you  do — if  I  think  there  ever  is  or  can 
be  the  least  doubt  as  to  his  good  faith  or  nerve,  I  will 
withdraw  my  request." 

"And  what  guaranty  have  we  that  you  will  play 
fair?" 

Bob  smiled  grimly.  "Isn't  the  guaranty  of  your 
Force  sufficient?" 

"You  profess  not  to  be  a  disciple." 

"You  have  my  word.  I  guess  you'll  have  to  depend 
on  that,"  Bob  said  quietly. 

Murchell  turned  to  the  governor.  "What  do  you 
say,  John?  It  is  your  concern  more  than  mine.  In 
all  probability  you'll  be  fighting  alone  then." 

"I  pray  not,"  Dunmeade  said  gently.  He  leaned  for- 
ward and  looked  at  Bob  intently.  "You  realize  what 
this  means?  Open  fight  against  the  railroad,  the 
Steel  Trust  and  the  Standard  Oil,  with  no  compro- 
mise." : 

"Governor  Dunmeade,"  Bob  answered  harshly, 
"they  have  seen  fit  to  make  war  on  me.  We'll  keep  it 
up  until  they  are  finished — or  I  am." 

"That  isn't  the  highest  or  most  trustworthy  motive, 
my  friend,"  Murchell  said  in  reproof. 

"It's  the  best  I  pretend  to,"  Bob  answered  curtly. 

The  governor  reached  his  hand  across  the  table  to 
Bob.  "Your  word  is  good  enough  for  me." 

For  an  hour  they  discussed  the  matter  in  detail, 
Bob  remaining  very  firm  in  his  demand.  At  last 
Murchell's  consent  was  won. 

"Then  it's  settled,"  he  said.  "Let  us  hope  we  never 
regret  it." 


250         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"You  will  never  regret  it,  Mr.  Murchell,"  Bob  re- 
plied earnestly.  "If  I  should  change  my  mind  about 
Remington,  I'll  support  whomever  you  choose." 

"Do  you  really  believe  there  is  any  chance  of  your 
changing  your  mind  ?" 

"I  hope  not,"  Bob  answered  quickly.  "In  the  mean- 
time, gentlemen,  be  so  kind  as  to  keep  this  quiet  for 
the  present.  I  prefer  that  Remington  shouldn't  hear 
of  it  at  once." 

"You  have  no  objections  to  my  wife  knowing,  I 
hope,"  said  Dunmeade.  "I  have  no  secrets  from  her, 
you  know." 

"No.  But  please  see  to  it  that  Mrs.  Gilbert  knows 
nothing  about  it.  Especially  Mrs.  Gilbert,"  Bob  added 
emphatically. 

Dunmeade  looked  at  Bob  curiously,  but  asked  no 
questions.  "Certainly  your  wishes  shall  be  respected," 
he  said  courteously. 

He  rose  from  the  table.  "This  being  settled,  shall 
we  go  into  the  library  ?  You  both  have  some  time  be- 
fore your  trains  are  due." 

To  this  proposal  Bob  demurred.  He  would  have 
preferred  to  go  to  his  hotel  to  wait  until  train  time, 
thus  avoiding  another  meeting  with  Eleanor.  But  the 
governor  insisted. 

"I  won't  take  'no.'  My  wife  will  be  very  much  dis- 
appointed, if  you  run  away.  Especially  now,"  he  added 
gently.  And  Bob  reluctantly  accompanied  the  others 
into  the  library. 

As  they  walked  through  the  hallway,  they  heard 
shouts  of  childish  merriment.  At  the  door  of  the 
library  they  halted  to  watch  a  pretty  little  group,  Ele- 
anor sitting  on  the  floor  romping  with  the  three  chil- 


THE  ALLIANCE  251 

dren — considerably  to  the  disarrangement  of  hair  and 
gown — while  Mrs.  Dunmeade  and  a  maid  looked 
laughingly  on. 

Murchell  nudged  Bob.  "One  of  the  things  we 
bachelors  miss,  eh,  McAdoo?" 

The  entrance  of  the  men  broke  up  the  merry  group, 
the  two  older  children  running  to  their  father  and 
climbing  into  his  arms.  Eleanor,  flushing  slightly, 
hurriedly  rose  to  her  feet,  holding  the  baby.  Now  a 
beautiful  woman  never  appeals  so  strongly  to  a  man  as 
when  she  has  a  little  child  in  her  arms. 

"Come,  you  children,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  commanded 
with  mock  severity,  "to  bed  with  you.  These  young- 
sters, Mr.  McAdoo,  have  the  run  of  the  house,  you 
see." 

But  before  the  child  was  turned  over  to  the  waiting 
maid,  Eleanor,  conscious — shall  we  confess  it? — of  the 
charming  picture  she  made,  must  take  him  to  his  father 
to  receive  the  good-night  salute.  Next,  Murchell  must 
pay  his  homage.  Then  she  looked,  hesitating,  toward 
Bob,  who  stood  in  the  background.  As  he  read  her 
intent  in  her  audacious  smile,  he  felt  the  blood  rise  un- 
comfortably to  his  face.  * 

"Come,"  she  declared  gaily,  "you  shan't  be  neg- 
lected, Mr.  McAdoo." 

She  carried  the  child  to  Bob  and  held  him  up.  Bob, 
with  awkward  unfamiliarity,  extended  his  big  hand 
toward  the  mite  of  humanity.  But  the  little  one  refused 
to  accept  the  advances,  clinging  tightly  to  Eleanor's  neck 
and  regarding  the  big  stranger  with  frightened  eyes. 

"Do  you  know  what  they  say  of  children's  in- 
stincts?" she  whispered  softly,  that  the  others  might 
not  hear.  Bob  flushed  even  more  deeply. 


252         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

It  was  a  little  thing,  but  it  added  fuel  to  the  flame 
of  his  angry  resentment  against  her. 

She  gave  the  child  over  to  the  maid.  "Children  are 
dears,  even  if  they  are  hard  on  one's  hair,"  she  laughed, 
as  with  the  inimitable  grace  which  a  woman  imparts  to 
the  operation  she  replaced  the  wisps  of  hair  disordered 
by  the  youngsters'  irreverent  hands. 

When  the  damage  had  been  repaired,  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade  suggested,  "Won't  you  sing  for  us  ?" 

"Yes,"  Eleanor  complied  without  reluctance,  real  or 
affected. 

And  forthwith  she  seated  herself  at  the  piano  and 
sang.  Murchell  took  a  chair  before  the  fire  and  leaned 
back  in  comfortable  anticipation.  The  governor  and 
his  wife  seated  themselves  near  each  other  where  they 
might  whisper  together. 

Bob,  glad  enough  of  any  excuse  for  silence  and  re- 
tirement, chose  a  seat  in  a  shadowy  corner.  There 
had  been  little  music  in  his  hard,  busy  life,  and  such 
singing  as  he  heard  that  evening  in  the  governor's 
library  was  a  revelation  to  him.  It  gave  him  a  glimpse 
of  a  new  world,  of  a  side  of  life  in  which  he  had  no 
part.  As  her  voice  rose  and  fell — in  some  simple  song 
chosen,  had  he  only  known  it,  to  fit  his  own  limited 
comprehension — his  eyes  fixed  their  gaze  sternly  on 
the  singer.  His  arms  were  folded  across  his  chest, 
each  hand  gripping  its  fellow's  biceps — as  he  had  sat 
through  the  convention,  when  Paul's  impassioned 
voice,  appealing  to  something  higher  in  the  audience 
than  the  orator  himself  felt,  had  found  a  lodgment 
where  least  expected.  The  easy  unconcern  with  which 
he  had  taken  his  place  among  these  people  fell  from 
him.  Here  in  the  somber  old  library,  fragrant  with 


THE  ALLIANCE  253 

memories,  in  the  presence  of  the  gentle-souled  Dun- 
meades;  listening  to  the  beautiful,  cultured,  well- 
poised  woman  who  was  singing — here  was  no  place 
for  him!  "Let  me  get  back  to  my  heelers  and  my 
fighting,  where  I  belong!"  .  .  . 

The  song  ended,  she  began  another.  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade,  to  whom  the  governor  had  whispered  the  result 
of  the  conference,  looked  eagerly  toward  Bob,  with  in- 
tent to  move  her  seat  beside  his.  But,  seeing  his  stern 
regard  of  Eleanor,  she  stayed  where  she  was,  scrutiniz- 
ing him  covertly. 

In  his  heart  Bob  was  crying  in  bitter  anger  to  the 
woman  at  the  piano :  "Why  did  you  come  into  my  life  ? 
But  for  you  I  could  soon  have  been  master  of  this 
state,  alone  and  undisputed.  I,  I  only,  not  this  Force 
which  these  dreamers  spin  out  of  their  fancy,  could 
have  done  this !  But  now,  because  of  you,  I  have  been 
false  to  myself.  I  am  free  no  longer — hampered  by  a 
man  with  ideals,  bound  by  this  new-found  honor  to 
keep  a  bargain  through  which  I  have  sold  my  inde- 
pendence." 

And  then,  with  a  smile  and  a  glance  for  him,  she. 
struck  into  another  song: 

"We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 
Of  Magic  Shadow-shapes  that  come  and  go 

Round  with  the  Sun-illumined  Lantern  held 
In  Midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show ; 

"But  helpless  Pieces  of  the  Game  He  plays 
Upon  this  Checquer-board  of  Nights  and  Days ; 

Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks,  and  slays, 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays." 


254         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Helpless  pieces  in  the  game  He  plays !"  Bitter  an- 
ger against  her  boiled  up  in  his  heart.  "That  wasn't 
true — until  you  came !"  .  .  . 

Murchell  rose  to  leave.  First,  he  held  out  his  hand 
to  Bob. 

"No  use  coming  with  me.  Your  train  isn't  due  for 
two  hours  yet.  My  friend,  you  won't  regret  to-night* 
You'll  hear  from  me  in  a  day  or  two." 

To  Eleanor  he  said :  "Thank  you  for  your  singing. 
It  has  done  me  great  good — and  to  know  you,  too.  I 
repeat,  you  are  a  very  beautiful  young  lady,  and  as 
good  as  you  are  good  to  look  at,  I'm  sure.  My  dear, 
I'm  an  old  man — "  And  he  bent  over  to  kiss  her.  A 
very  becoming  flush  came  to  her  cheek. 

"You  two  can  take  care  of  each  other  for  a  few  min- 
utes, can't  you?"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  said  to  Eleanor  and 
Bob.  "We  never  leave  this  dear  friend  until  he  has 
passed  the  door."  So  Robert  McAdoo  and  Eleanor 
Gilbert  were  alone  together  once  more. 

When  the  others  had  left,  she  looked  at  him  uncer- 
tainly a  moment.  Then  she  laughed. 

"Well!  Fate — or  shall  we  say,  the  Force? — seems 
to  take  an  intimate  interest  in  our  affairs.  The  last 
time  we  met,  we  both  determined  never  to  see  each 
other  again.  And  now — "  She  waved  her  hand  in  an 
expressive  gesture.  "Suppose  you  come  over  here  by 
the  piano.  It's  awkward,  trying  to  talk  across  a  big 
room  like  this." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  stood  by  the  piano,  looking 
down  on  her. 

"Aren't  they  the  dear,  good  people?"  she  said  ear- 
nestly, "and  don't  they  make  you  feel  mean  and  small? 
They  always  do  me,  I  know.  Or,"  she  added  with  the 


THE  ALLIANCE  255 

irritating  uplift  of  her  brow,  "do  you  ever  feel  small 
and  mean  ?" 

"I  admit  their  goodness." 

She  saw  that,  for  some  reason,  his  temper  was  slip- 
ping its  leash.  She  took  a  keen  delight  in  her  power 
to  anger  him.  Daringly  she  tried  to  torment  him  fur- 
ther. 

"These  people,  this  home,  have  the  strangest  effect 
on  me.  They  make  me  want  to  rise  above  my  mean- 
ness of  spirit.  They  almost  persuade  me  to  be  gener- 
ous. Do  you  know,"  she  leaned  forward  on  the 
music-rack,  resting  her  chin  on  her  folded  hands  and 
smiling  up  at  him,  "I'm  almost  tempted  never  to 
quarrel  with  you  again." 

"I  don't  want  peace  with  you,"  he  cried  roughly. 

"No,"  she  laughed,  "I  know  you  don't.  That's  one 
good  reason  why  I  should  yield  to  temptation.  But 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to  quarrel  with  you,  aside 
from  that.  The  last  twenty-four  hours  I've  learned  a 
good  many  things.  One  of  them  is  to  revise  my  opin- 
ion of  you.  What  I  have  heard  of  you  heretofore,  you 
know,  has  always  been  biased  one  way  or  the  other. 
Mr.  Remington's  homerics  I  have  always  regarded 
merely  as  the  overloyalty  of  a  zealous  friend.  But  now 
—when  I  see  how  these  good  people  receive  you,"  she 
concluded  her  sentence  with  great  deliberation,  "I  be- 
gin to  think  you're  not  half  so  black  as  you  have  been 
painted,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

"I  don't  want  your  good  opinion.  Stick  to  the  old 
one.  I'm  all  you  thought  me  and  more." 

"Poor  man !  You  deserve  the  relief  of  that  outburst. 
This  truce  has  been  hard  on  you,  hasn't  it?  You've 
behaved  very  well.  But  tell  me,  will  you  answer  a 


256         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

question  honestly — without  any  consideration  of  my, 
feelings?" 

"I  can  at  least  promise  not  to  consider  your  feel- 
ings," he  answered  grimly,  struggling  with  his  anger. 

'Then — do  you  dislike  me  merely  because  Mr.  Rem- 
ington cares — or  thinks  he  cares — for  me  ?  Or  do  you 
really  hate  me  for  myself  ?" 

"Mrs.  Gilbert,  I  really  hate  you  for  yourself." 

"I  knew  it."  Amusement  was  not  written  quite  so 
plainly  on  her  face  as  it  had  been.  "Why?" 

"That's  the  irony  of  it,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly. 
"When  I  tell  you  why,  I  pay  you  the  best  compliment 
I  can  give.  I  hate  you  because  you  are  beautiful.  Be- 
cause you  are  witty.  Because  you  have  courage.  Be- 
cause you  are  the  only  person  I  have  ever  met  that  I'm 
not  a  match  for.  Because  you  have  forced  me  to 
change  my  plans. 

"Hate  you !"  he  continued,  and  though  his  voice  be- 
came lower  it  also  grew  hotter.  "I  hated  you  when  I 
first  saw  you  and  saved  your  life.  Mrs.  Gilbert,  I  hate 
you  so  thoroughly  that  I  have  come  to  this  decision — 
either  Paul  Remington  gives  you  up  or  he  gives  me  up. 
If  he  marries  you,  he  goes  out  of  my  life  once  and  for 
all.  Now  you  may  gloat,"  he  sneered.  "I  deserve  to' 
have  you  know  the  truth.  It's  my  just  punishment  for 
not  being  able  to  beat  a  woman." 

During  his  outburst  her  amusement  disappeared  al- 
together. She  spoke  almost  regretfully. 

"How  you  must  hate  me!  I  don't  understand  it. 
But  I  don't  gloat.  I  am  only  sorry  for  you.  What 
you  say  almost  makes  you  contemptible.  Surely  you 
can't  mean  that,  merely  because  your  petty,  childish 
vanity  is  hurt,  you  are  willing  to  sacrifice  not  only  my 


THE  ALLIANCE  257 

possible  happiness — which,  of  course,  doesn't  count — 
but  also  the  happiness  of  a  man  you  have  called  friend. 
Surely  you're  not  so  small  and  weak  as  that !" 

Then  his  anger  slipped  its  leash  entirely.  The  red 
veil  that  had  come  before  his  eyes  when  he  fought 
Haggin  fell  again.  He  was  obsessed  by  a  savage  lust 
to  hurt  the  woman  before  him,  to  deal  her  a  blow  that 
she  would  feel  to  the  uttermost.  His  words  fell 
slowly,  cuttingly,  with  cruel  distinctness. 

"O,  for  that  I  have  all  the  justification  I  need. 
You're  not  to  be  trusted  with  him.  You're  beautiful. 
You're  the  sort  that  has  power  over  men.  You  have 
power  over  me.  .  .  .  Seeing  you  sets  me  on  fire 
with  wild,  insane  longings.  I  have  to  keep  my  hate 
boiling  ...  or  ...  good  God!  what  am  I 
saying?  .  .  .  it's  true!  ...  or  love  you!" 
He  laughed  harshly,  wildly.  "And  the  weaker  the 
man,  the  greater  your  power.  I  know  your  history, 
Mrs.  Gilbert.  You  had  one  weakling  under  your  influ- 
ence. And  you  let  him  go  to  hell  without  lifting  a  fin- 
ger to  save  him." 

Even  in  his  savage  anger,  Bob  was  startled  by  the 
effect  of  his  cruel  words.  She  turned  white  and  shrank 
back  as  from  a  heavy  physical  blow.  Once  he  had  car- 
ried an  injured  newsboy  from  the  street  into  a  doctor's 
office  and  had  seen  the  mingled  fear  and  fascination  in 
the  child's  eyes  as  he  watched  the  surgeon's  move- 
ments. Into  her  eyes  he  saw  the  same  expression 
come,  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  her  woman's  pride  and 
courage  struck  down  in  an  instant.  She  drew  a  long, 
shuddering  breath. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped.  "I  didn't  believe  you  could  be 
so  cruel.  I  didn't  believe  you  could  be  so  cruel." 


258         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Slowly,  unable  to  take  her  eyes  from  his,  she  rose 
and  started  uncertainly  toward  the  door.  She  stum- 
bled over  a  chair  and  would  have  fallen,  had  he  not 
caught  her.  She  pushed  herself  away  from  him,  shud- 
dering. 

"Don't  touch  me,  don't  touch  me !" 

He  watched  her,  hardly  able  to  comprehend  the 
completeness  of  his  brutality's  triumph  or  the  startling 
change  in  the  woman  who  had  mocked  him  so  often, 
until  she  passed  out  of  the  room.  And  as  she  went 
from  his  sight,  the  sweetness  of  his  savage  joy  turned 
to  bitterness  in  his  mouth — left  him  to  face  the  su- 
preme fact  of  his  life. 

A  minute  later,  mechanically,  ashamed  and  humbled 
by  his  own  cruelty,  he  followed  her  into  the  hall.  But 
she  had  gone  up-stairs  to  her  room.  He  went  on  to 
the  door,  whence  the  governor  and  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
were  returning.  It  did  not  require  Mrs.  Dunmeade's 
keen  eyes  to  discern  that  something  was  wrong. 

"Are  you  leaving  so  soon?" 

"Yes,  I  must." 

She  did  not  seek  to  detain  him,  but  held  out  both 
hands  to  him. 

"I  shan't  boast  of  my  prescience.  But  I  must  say 
that  I'm  glad — for  your  sake  as  well  as  ours.  I  ex- 
pect great  things  of  you,  Robert  McAdoo." 

He  dropped  her  hands  quickly.  "You  can't  expect 
much  from  me"  he  answered  roughly. 

And  seizing  his  hat  and  coat,  without  waiting  to 
put  them  on  or  to  say  good-by  to  Dunmeade,  he  strode 
out  into  the  night. 

The  mansion  had  been  some  time  sunk  in  the  mid- 
night quiet  when  Mrs.  Dunmeade,  troubled  by  Elea- 


THE  ALLIANCE  259 

nor's  non-appearance,  tiptoed  softly  along  the  hall  to 
her  guest's  bedchamber.  Through  the  transom  the 
light  still  shone. 

She  rapped  softly.    "Are  you  asleep,  Eleanor?" 

There  was  a  short  wait  before  a  tired  voice  an- 
swered, "No." 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Dunmeade  opened  the  door  and  entered.  Elea- 
nor was  in  bed,  her  bright  hair  straying  loosely  over 
the  pillow.  She  was  staring  hopelessly  at  the  flicker- 
ing gas-jet.  Mrs.  Dunmeade  saw  no  traces  of  tears. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  bedside.  "My  dear,"  she 
said  gently,  leaning  over  to  stroke  the  pretty  hair, 
"will  you  tell  me  what  is  the  matter?" 

Eleanor  restively  moved  her  head  away  from  the 
caress.  "Don't  pet  me,"  she  said  bitterly.  "I'm  not 
a  child,  but  a  woman  nearly  twenty-seven  years  old, 
who  has  just  been  told  she  is  responsible  for  the  shame- 
ful life  and  death  of  her  husband." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  cried  in  shocked  surprise, 
"did  he  taunt  you  with  that?  My  dear,  don't  take  it 
to  heart.  We  all  know  you  were  the  one  sinned 
against." 

"Yes,  that  was  one  of  my  pretty  fancies,  too," 
Eleanor  said  in  the  same  bitter  tone.  "Until  to-night, 
when  he  opened  my  eyes.  I  have  been  lying  here 
seeing  things  as  they  are.  What  he  said  was  true. 
That's  why  it  hurt — I  let  Leonard  Gilbert  go  to  hell 
and  didn't  lift  a  finger  to  save  him.  Only,"  she  added 
wearily,  "I  would  rather  have  heard  it  from  any  one 
but  him." 

"My  poor  child !"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  breathed  softly, 


26o          THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

taking  Eleanor's  hand.  "I  had  hoped  his  coining 
would  bring  nothing  but  happiness." 

"Can  he  bring  happiness  to  any  one?"  Eleanor  que- 
ried wanly. 

And  wise  Mrs.  Dunmeade,  hoping  to  draw  Eleanor's 
mind  a  little  from  her  own  trouble,  told  her  the  story 
of  John  Dunmeade  from  the  very  beginning:  of  the 
long,  lonely  struggle,  with  its  defeats  and  compro- 
mises and  infinitesimal  victories,  of  the  open  fight 
now  being  waged  against  him  by  his  enemies,  and 
why.  Then  she  told  her  of  the  time  when  Bob  had 
refused  to  help  the  governor,  and  how  for  years  they 
had  hoped  and  waited  for  his  conversion;  and  lastly, 
ignoring  her  husband's  promise  to  Bob,  of  the  alliance 
that  had  been  formed  that  night,  and  what  it  meant  to 
the  reformers. 

"It  is  asking  a  good  deal  to  ask  you  to  forgive  him. 
But,  dear,  I  think  he  is  suffering  from  some  cause. 
Some  day  he  will  be  sorry.  He  is  a  man  who  hasn't 
yet  found  himself,"  she  concluded  gently.  "But  when 
he  does  find  himself,  he  will  be  a  vastly  different  man, 
and  he  will  bring  happiness  to  many." 

Eleanor  shook  her  head  listlessly.  "But  not  to  me. 
He  despises  me,  and  he  will  never  relent.  But  I  have 
no  resentment."  The  slow  flush  crept  into  her  cheeks 
and  she  put  her  arm  over  her  eyes  that  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade might  not  look  into  them. 

Mrs.  Dunmeade  bent  over  impulsively  and  put  her 
arms  around  her.  "My  dear  child,"  she  whispered  tin- 
derstandingly,  "has  it  come  to  you  at  last — and  so?" 

Eleanor  suffered  the  caress  for  a  minute,  and  then 
gently  released  herself.  "Won't  you  please  go  away? 
I  would  rather  be  by  myself,"  she  said  wearily. 


THE  ALLIANCE  261 

Mrs.  Dunmeade  kissed  her  compassionately  and 
left  the  room,  troubled  in  heart. 

Years  before  a  young  girl,  bruised  under  the  ruth- 
less heel  of  Bob  McAdoo,  had  watched  the  night  out. 
That  night  in  the  governor's  mansion  history  repeated 
itself. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   FORCE  AT   WORK 

BOB  returned  to  treat  the  city  to  a  whirlwind  cam- 
paign such  as  it  had  never  known. 

As  cogs  in  his  machine  he  had  his  managers  and 
lieutenants  and  committees.  But  from  now  to  the 
close  of  the  campaign  he  took  upon  himself  much  of 
their  work  as  well  as  the  ordinary  but  trying  func- 
tions of  the  candidate.  No  detail  of  the  campaign  was 
too  insignificant  to  receive  his  attention.  He  knew  to 
a  man  who  were  working  for  him  in  every  precinct  of 
the  great  city  and  what  work  they  were  doing.  These 
workers  he  met  in  person,  giving  to  the  bearer  of  fa- 
vorable reports  short  words  of  praise  that  somehow 
sent  him  back  to  his  precinct  determined  to  do  better 
still,  and  to  others  who  had  met  with  greater  obstacles 
a  kindly  encouragement  that  stiffened  their  resolution. 

It  was  Bob's  changed  manner  toward  men  that 
amazed  Haggin. 

"Damned  if  you  ain't  gettin'  to  be  a  reg'lar  mixer," 
he  grinned  late  one  night — or  rather  early  one  morn- 
ing— as  Bob  and  he  walked  home  from  headquarters 
together.  "You  got  Paul  skinned  now.  What's  got 
into  you?" 

"God  knows!"  Bob  answered  with  a  hard  laugh. 

"Well,  mebby  He  does,"  Haggin  said  philosophic- 
262 


THE  FORCE  AT  WORK          263 

ally.  "What  /  know  is,  you're  goin'  to  give  Mack  the 
all-firedest  lickin'  he  ever  got." 

Could  it  have  been  Bob  who  made  the  answer? 
"No,  no,  Tom!  You  and  I  have  deluded  ourselves 
with  that  notion  long  enough.  Not  I,  but  the  people, 
are  going  to  whip  MacPherson." 

Haggin  snorted  in  profound  disgust.  "Aw,  g'wan ! 
You  talk  like  Paul  in  his  speeches.  They're  goin'  to 
do  it  fer  you.  Guess  that  means  you're  doin'  it." 

"Bah !    Why  should  they  do  it  for  me  ?" 

Haggin's  brow  puckered  over  the  problem.  "I 
know,  but  I  dunno  how  to  say  it."  What  Haggin 
considered  a  clencher  occurred  to  him.  "Well,"  he 
asked  triumphantly,  "if  the  people's  doin'  it  all,  what 
are  you  workin'  so  hard  fer,  half  killin'  yourself? 
Even  you  can't  stand  the  pace  you're  settin'." 

"You  can't  understand,"  Bob  growled  helplessly. 
"I've  got  to." 

It  was  quite  true,  what  Haggin  suggested.  The 
strain  was  telling  even  on  Bob's  strength.  Unwonted 
hollows  appeared  in  his  cheeks  and  temples.  His 
deep-set  eyes  sank  deeper  still.  New  lines  showed 
about  his  mouth.  But  feverish  activity  was  a  neces- 
sity to  him,  to  deaden  all  thought  of  the  thing  that 
haunted  him — the  thing  which,  unless  he  dragged 
home  a  body  wearied  to  the  point  of  exhaustion,  kept 
him  tossing  in  bed  or  pacing  the  floor  sleeplessly — the 
face  of  a  woman  whom  he  had  brutally  struck  down  in 
his  wild  anger. 

But  his  work  told.  The  city  was  in  a  turmoil  of 
political  excitement.  The  press  reveled  in  the  oppor- 
tunity, bristling  with  charges  and  counter-charges, 
innuendo  and  recrimination.  At  the  club,  over  lunch- 


264         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

counters,  by  the  fireside,  men — and  women,  too — 
discussed  and  took  sides  over  the  campaign.  The 
children  on  the  streets  became  bitter  partizans. 

Murchell  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Soon  after 
Bob's  return  to  the  city  he  received  from  the  old  man 
a  substantial  check  for  the  campaign  fund.  Also  cer- 
tain gentlemen  who  had  hitherto  been  inactive  took  a 
sudden  keen  interest  in  Bob's  candidacy. 

But  back  of  Murchell's  help,  back  of  the  newspapers, 
back  of  the  machine,  was  the  dynamic  personality  of 
Bob  McAdoo.  The  issues  may  have  been  "The  peo- 
ple against  the  trust,"  "citizenship  against  wealth,"  as 
Bob's  press  and  orators  declared,  but  to  the  Steel  City 
the  issues  took  concrete  form  in  the  person  and  name 
-of  one  man,  Bob  McAdoo.  Either  you  were  for  or 
you  were  against  Bob  McAdoo;  mostly  you  were  for 
him.  When,  during  the  last  three  weeks  of  the  cam- 
paign, he  took  the  stump  in  person,  speaking  three 
or  four  times  every  evening,  the  school-houses  were 
packed  to  overflowing  by  friends  and  enemies  alike. 
He  \vas  no  orator,  but  his  short,  crisp  speeches  were 
received  with  greater  attention  and  enthusiasm  than 
even  Paul's  fervid  oratory  or  Martin's  keen,  analytical 
arguments. 

And  Henry  Sanger,  Jr.,  waxed  desperate. 

One  noonday — not  two  weeks  before  the  election — 
Bob  found  himself  alone  in  the  "engine  room."  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  an  air  of  fatigue  that 
sat  strangely  on  his  stalwart  figure,  and  let  his  eyes 
stare  vacantly  into  space.  While  he  sat  thus  abstract- 
edly, Paul  entered.  Bob  nodded  mechanically. 

Paul  addressed  a  remark  to  him,  which  did  not 
pierce  the  abstraction.  Bob  made  no  answer.  Then 


THE  FORCE  AT  WORK          265 

Paul  noticed  the  absent  manner.  He  repeated  the  re- 
mark more  loudly.  Bob  came  to  himself  with  a  start. 

"Eh?"  he  exclaimed.     "O,  it's  you,  Paul." 

Paul  looked  at  him  curiously.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you,  anyhow  ?  I  said  I've  a  tip  on  Consolidated 
Glass/' 

"Which  way?"  Bob  asked,  without  interest. 

"To  buy." 

"All  right.    Sell." 

"No,"  Paul  said  eagerly.  "This  is  a  good  tip.  I 
got  it  from  Brown,  Hartley's  broker.  Hartley,  you 
know,  is  a  director.  Next  week  they're  going  to  de- 
clare a  four  per  cent,  increase  in  dividends." 

"Humph!  The  broker  who  will  doublecross  his 
client  will  do  the  same  to  you." 

"Not  this  time.  I  got  it  last  night  at  the  club. 
Brown  was  on  one  of  his  periodical  sprees.  I  put  him 
to  bed  and,  as  a  special  favor  to  me,  his  'dear,  dearesh 
fr'en','  he  gave  me  the  tip." 

Bob  grunted  again  sententiously.  "Steer  clear  of 
the  stock  market." 

"But  you've  speculated  yourself,"  Paul  retorted. 

"That's  different" 

"I  don't  see  it,"  Paul  answered  impatiently.  "Any- 
how, I'm  going  into  this." 

"All  right.    How  much  money  have  you  ?" 

"O,  only  a  measly  two  or  three  thousand,"  Paul  an- 
swered contemptuously. 

"Well,  go  ahead,"  Bob  said  with  skeptical  indiffer- 
ence. "You  can't  lose  much  and  the  lesson  will  be 
cheap  at  the  price." 

"But  I  tell  you  it's  a  good  tip,"  and  Paul  pounded 
die  table  in  his  earnestness,  "and  I  want  to  raise 


266         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

twenty-five  thousand  or  so  for  it.  I  can  treble  the 
money  in  a  week." 

Bob  smiled  tolerantly,  as  though  Paul  had  been 
a  child  asking  for  an  expensive  but  useless  toy.  "What 
do  you  want  with  so  much  money?" 

"O,  I'm  serious  about  this,  Bob.  Will  you  lend  me 
the  money?" 

Bob  did  not  answer  at  once.  In  the  gray  hollows 
the  red-lidded  eyes  gleamed  with  a  hot,  fierce  light. 
"Why  not?  Why  not  add  one  more  link  to  the  chain 
of  obligations  by  which  he  would  break  the  hold  of — " 
He  stirred  as  one  in  sudden  pain  and  left  the  thought 
unfinished.  The  hot,  fierce  gleam  slowly  faded  into  a 
dull  stare  Paul  did  not  recognize.  The  noonday 
sun  was  streaming  in  through  the  shadeless  windows, 
yet  Bob  was  seeing  again  the  face  of  the  stricken 
woman,  as  he  had  sleeplessly  looked  upon  it  through 
the  small  hours  of  that  morning,  accusing,  fearing,  ap- 
pealing. To  his  thin  face,  ugly  in  its  gauntness,  surged 
the  slow,  painful  red.  When  he  spoke,  Paul  hardly 
knew  the  voice,  so  constrained  and  querulous  was  it. 

"I  can't  do  it." 

"Why  not?" 

Bob's  words  came  uncertainly.  "I  can't  afford  it. 
I  need  every  cent  that  isn't  tied  up,  for  the  campaign.'' 

"You  could  go  on  my  paper." 

Bob  shook  his  head.     "No,  not  on  an  uncertainty." 

Paul  said  nothing.  For  a  minute  he  sat  by  the  desk, 
drumming  his  fingers  on  the  polished  top.  Then  he 
rose,  drawing  a  long,  whistling  breath,  and  without 
another  word  went  out. 

Bob  stared  in  troubled  perplexity  at  the  doorway, 
which  Paul  had  neglected  to  close.  He  did  not  know 


THE  FORCE  AT  WORK         267 

that  he  spoke  aloud,  in  the  same  constrained,  queru- 
lous voice. 

"What  is  it?  I  can't  use  the  weapons  I  have.  The 
game  has  passed  out  of  my  hands.  .  .  .  And  he's 
not  worth  the  trouble  he  causes.  He's  not  worth  what 
I  offer.  He's  not  worth — her.  I'm  not  worth — her." 

Paul  went  out  into  the  streets,  disappointed,  hurt, 
almost  bitter  against  Bob.  Poor  Paul!  He  was  one 
of  those  to  whom  the  present  want  is  always  the  keen- 
est. In  all  probability  twenty-four  hours  later  the  de- 
sire would  have  lost  its  force,  but  when  he  left  Bob 
his  one  want  was  to  clear  fifty  thousand  dollars  in- 
Consolidated  Glass.  And  he  could  not  know  that  Bob, 
swayed  by  a  new-born  shame  and  self-distrust — yes, 
self-distrust — had  refused  the  loan  only  that  he  might 
never  be  tempted  to  use  the  obligation  as  a  club. 

And  that  day  fate — Murchell  would  have  said,  the 
Force — busily  interested  in  a  greater  than  Paul,  led 
him  into  dangerous  paths.  For  when  he  reached  the 
streets,  his  aimless  tramping  guided  him  past  the  First 
National  Bank,  which,  as  all  the  city  knows,  is  con- 
trolled by  the  Sanger  interests.  And  fate  must  at 
that  very  moment  bring  Henry  Sanger,  Junior's,  au- 
tomobile to  a  stop  in  front  of  the  bank.  Sanger 
stepped  out  and,  seeing  Paul,  paused  long  enough  for 
a  genial  word  and  handshake  before  he  entered  the 
bank.  Paul  walked  a  few  blocks  farther  before  the 
recollection  of  a  certain  promise  brought  him  to  a  sud- 
den halt.  "If  ever  I  can  do  anything  for  you  per- 
sonally, let  me  know,"  Sanger  had  said  heartily.  Paul 
hastily  and  determinedly  began  to  tramp  again. 

"Why  not  ?"  demanded  the  desire  of  the  moment. 

"Dangerous,"  counseled  Conscience. 


268         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Fifty  thousand  dollars  is  a  great  deal  of  money," 
suggested  Desire. 

"Sanger  has  twice  tried  to  tempt  you,"  cautioned 
Prudence. 

"It's  a  poor  friendship  that  stands  between  me  anH 
my  interest,"  sneered  Desire. 

"And  besides,"  Paul  argued  with  himself,  "this  is 
only  personal.  If  I  yield  to  temptation,  it  will  be  for 
a  greater  thing  than  money.  I'll  just  drop  in  and  see 
whether  Sanger  thinks  well  of  the  tip." 

So  he  walked  back  to  the  bank  and  into  the  direc- 
tors' room,  where  sat  Sanger.  Sanger  greeted  Paul 
with  a  pleased  surprise  very  flattering  to  our  sus- 
ceptible friend.  For  a  few  minutes  they  talked  of  va- 
rious unimportant  subjects.  Then  Sanger  looked  at 
his  watch. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Remington?  Sorry, 
but  I've  got  to  leave  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Well,"  Paul  answered  hesitatingly,  "if  it's  none  of 
my  business,  say  so.  I  got  a  tip  last  night  to  buy  Con- 
solidated Glass.  What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Sanger  smoked  reflectively  for  a  minute.  "Can  I 
depend  on  you  to  let  what  I  say  go  no  further  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"It's  a  good  tip.  Go  in  on  it  to  the  limit.  You're 
safe." 

Paul  laughed  rather  shamefacedly.  "I'm  going  to, 
but  my  limit  isn't  very  big.  About  twenty-five  hun- 
dred." 

"Why  don't  you  borrow  and  plunge?" 

Paul  laughed  again,  this  time  sharply.  "My  credit 
doesn't  seem  very  good.  I  tried  it  in  one  place  I 
thought  was  sure,  but  it  did  no  good." 


THE  FORCE  AT  WORK          269 

Sanger  sent  three  beautiful  smoke  rings  into  the 
air,  thoughtfully.  Paul  had  not  said  whom  he  had 
asked  for  the  loan,  but  Sanger  thought  he  could  guess. 
Then  he  whirled  sharply  in  his  chair. 

"How  much  did  you  want?" 

"I  asked  for  twenty-five  thousand." 

"Absurd,  on  a  deal  like  this.  Make  it  fifty,"  Sanger 
said  heartily. 

"Do  you  mean — "  Paul  began  delightedly. 

"Certainly,  I  mean  it,"  Sanger  responded  energet- 
ically. "I'm  going  to  instruct  my  broker  to  buy  five 
thousand  shares  for  you.  Leave  it  to  me,"  he  added 
smilingly,  "and  if  you're  not  considerably  richer  a 
week  from  to-day,  you  don't  owe  me  a  cent." 

Paul  hesitated.  Somewhere  down  in  his  heart  there 
was  a  faint  protest.  "Of  course,  this  doesn't  pledge 
me  to  anything  politically?" 

"Of  course  not,"  Sanger  replied  with  an  air  of  in- 
jured virtue.  "I  hope  you  don't  think  I  would  try 
to  bribe  you"  His  slight  emphasis  was  subtly  flat- 
tering. Paul  felt  relieved.  "This  affair  is  between 
you  and  me  personally,  not  politically.  Of  course," 
he  added,  with  a  frank  laugh,  "I  shouldn't  want  you 
to  use  any  of  it  against  me  politically." 

"Certainly  not,"  Paul  responded  gratefully.  "Mr. 
Sanger,  you  can't  imagine — " 

"Tut!  tut!"  Sanger  interrupted  bruskly.  "No 
thanks.  I  appreciate  your  coming  to  me.  Drop  in 
and  see  me  any  time.  Good  afternoon."  And  he  held 
out  a  cordial  hand  to  Paul,  who  took  it  and  went  out, 
thinking  bitterly : 

"It  seems  that  an  enemy  can  be  more  generous  than 
a  friend,  sometimes." 


270         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

That  night  Bob  was  scheduled  to  speak  in  the 
Fourth  Ward.  And  all  Irishtown  had  made  ready. 
Well  Haggin  knew  that  no  mere  school-house  audi- 
torium would  be  ample  for  this  occasion.  So  a  great, 
bare  hall  was  hired.  Flags  and  bunting  galore  had 
been  secured — at  Haggin's  expense — and  hung  around 
the  bare  walls  and  ceiling,  more  profusely  perhaps  than 
artistically.  Hardly  had  darkness  fallen  that  evening 
when  the  streets  and  saloons  of  Irishtown  began  to  fill 
with  a  boisterous,  excited  throng  on  its  way  to  the 
meeting.  A  half-dozen  brass  bands  marched  and 
played  lustily,  followed  by  as  many  McAdoo  march- 
ing clubs,  gaudily  uniformed,  trudging  jubilantly 
through  the  muddy  streets,  carrying  red  fire  and  trans- 
parencies painted  with  loyal  devices.  One  transparency 
in  particular  aroused  the  wildest  enthusiasm;  it  de- 
clared to  the  world :  "To  Hell  With  Larkin !  We're 
for  Bob  McAdoo!"  At  eight  o'clock  the  bands  united 
before  the  hall  and  marched  playing,  to  the  platform. 
After  them  trooped  the  marching  clubs  and  the  noisy, 
riotously  happy  crowds — all  Irishtown  gathered  to 
welcome  its  favorite  son. 

Dear,  loyal  Irishtown!  Many  harsh  words  have 
been  spoken  of  it  by  the  Steel  City's  silk-stocking 
reformers.  Always  was  it  the  backbone  of  this  or 
that  political  machine;  often  was  it  the  scene  of  the 
vilest  corruption.  But  Irishtown  can  be  forgiven  much 
for  the  thing  it  did  that  night  and  for  certain  majori- 
ties which  it  gave  later.  Of  the  real  issues  of  the 
campaign  Irishtown  knew  little  and  cared  less.  It 
was  enough  that  the  candidate  was  "th'  grrand  fight- 
in'  man"  who  had  lived  in  their  midst  and  battled  his 
way  to  mastery  over  the  city. 


THE  FORCE  AT  WORK          271 

The  meeting  was  notable,  first,  because  Paul  Rem- 
ington made  the  poorest  speech  of  his  career.  After 
Paul,  Martin  spoke.  The  audience  listened  respect- 
fully, but  with  inward  impatience ;  they  had  not  come 
to  listen  to  oratory,  however  glowing.  While  Martin 
was  yet  speaking,  those  near  to  the  windows  heard 
the  panting  of  an  automobile.  "He's  coming,"  the 
whisper  ran  over  the  hall.  Necks  craned  in  anticipa- 
tion; a  few  rose  to  their  feet,  gathering  their  powers 
for  a  shout.  Several  men  quietly  entered  the  platform 
from  a  side  door.  After  them  came  Bob  McAdoo. 

Bob  had  been  cheered  before,  and  since  then  he  has 
received  "ovations"  from  greater  and  more  select  audi- 
ences. But  neither  before  nor  since  has  he  been 
greeted  with  the  spontaneous,  thunderous  welcome 
which  Irishtown  gave  him  that  night.  Four  thousand, 
and  not  a  weak  voice  among  them,  rose  and  shouted 
like  mad,  shouted  and  shouted  again  until  for  very 
physical  inability  they  were  compelled  to  cease. 
Through  it  all  the  man  to  whom  they  were  shouting 
their  loyalty  stood,  motionless  and  unsmiling,  stirred 
to  the  depths. 

Martin,  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  a  climax,  waved 
his  hand  approvingly  at  the  crowd  and  joined  in  the 
cheers  himself.  As  the  shouting  continued,  he  reached 
across  the  table  and  grasped  Bob's  hand. 

"By  God!  old  man,"  he  cried,  with  an  unwonted 
familiarity.  "I'd  give  twenty  years  of  my  life  to  be 
greeted  like  that  just  once." 

But  Bob  did  not  hear  his  words  or  notice  the  hand- 
clasp. 

When  the  tumult  died  down,  Martin  took  a  seat, 
leaving  his  speech  unfinished,  and  Bob  began. 


272         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

It  was  not  much  of  a  speech.  His  voice  was  hoarse. 
The  words  fell  jerkily  and  with  no  attempt  at  oratori- 
cal flourish.  But  his  audience  listened  intently, 
proudly.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  he  closed,  with  these 
words : 

"You  are  my  kind  of  people.  I've  lived  most  of  my 
life  among  you.  I  know  you  and  you  know  me.  There 
are  more  dollars  against  me  in  this  fight  than  you  can 
grasp  the  meaning  of.  But  the  fight  won't  end  until 
I  die.  I  want  you  to  stand  by  me." 

The  shout  that  met  this  appeal  was  a  prophecy. 

When  the  meeting  was  over  and  Bob  was  shaking 
hands  with  his  old  neighbors,  Haggin  espied  Paul 
standing  alone  in  a  corner  of  the  platform.  He  rushed 
over  and  clapped  the  young  man  vigorously  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Ain't  it  great?"  he  whispered;  his  voice  was  gone. 
"Greatest  meetin'  I  ever  seen.  O,  he's  a  winner  fer 
sure!" 

"Yes,"  Paul  replied,  with  a  queer  laugh.  "He's  a 
winner — in  this,  anyhow." 

He  slipped  away  from  the  hall  and  went  home 
alone. 

Hours  afterward  Kathleen,  for  the  third  night  in 
succession,  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  a  steady 
pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  room  above  her.  She  arose 
and,  hastily  dressing,  went  up-stairs.  Knocking,  she 
entered  and  went  up  to  Bob. 

"Bob,"  she  said  directly,  "there's  been  something 
wrong  lately." 

"Always,  Kathleen,"  he  answered  in  a  tired  voice. 

"Can't  I  help  you  with  it?"  she  asked  gently. 


273 

He  shook  his  head  hopelessly.  "No  one  can  help 
me.  It's  only  that  I'm  ashamed.  Go  back  to  bed  and 
quit  bothering  about  me,  Kathleen.  I'm  not  worth  it." 

Something  in  his  voice  and  haggard  face  caused  the 
tears  to  start  to  her  eyes.  She  turned  away  and  left 
him.  The  monotonous  pacing  to  and  fro  began  again. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

STRATAGEMS 

WHEN  Eleanor  left  the  Dunmeade  household  she 
was  convinced  that  she  did  not  care  ever  again 
to  see  the  grimy,  busy  Steel  City.  Therefore  she  went 
to  New  York,  ostensibly  to  visit  a  friend  of  her  school- 
days ;  in  reality,  that  she  might  think  out  the  new  prob- 
lem confronting  her. 

Two  very  gay  weeks  followed ;  gay,  that  is,  on  the 
surface.  Yet  even  in  the  midst  of  the  social  whirl  she 
found  time  to  fight  her  battle.  And  she  felt  a  sort  of 
detached  wonder  at  herself,  as  she  discovered  how 
frankly  and  bravely  she  could  accept  the  situation. 

There  was  one  thing  that  she  made  no  effort  to 
disguise  from  herself. 

Every  day  she  despatched  a  servant  to  get  the 
Steel  City  papers.  When  they  were  brought  to  her 
she  spent  long  hours  poring  over  them.  One  day  they 
contained  an  account  of  a  monster  mass  meeting — 
though  the  Gazette  unblushingly  declared  it  a  "frost" 
— held  in  the  city's  principal  hall  in  McAdoo's  inter- 
est. She  noticed  with  vague  misgiving  that  no  men- 
tion was  made  of  Paul  Remington's  presence  on  the 
platform.  On  the  first  page  of  one  of  the  papers  was 
a  photograph  of  the  Republican  candidate,  the  first 

274 


STRATAGEMS  275 

she  had  ever  seen  of  him ;  his  eyes  looked  straight  out 
at  the  reader.  Long  after  the  accounts  had  been  read 
she  sat,  gravely  studying  the  picture.  She  remained 
alone  until  the  afternoon  waned,  musing  wistfully. 
Several  times  she  caught  her  hands  stroking  the  paper 
caressingly;  and  once  she  had  to  rub  her  eyes  vigor- 
ously— to  see  the  better,  no  doubt.  At  last  she  came 
to  a  resolution. 

"I  will  go  back,"  she  declared  to  herself.  "And  to- 
night." Calling  a  maid,  she  had  her  trunk  packed  at 
once. 

Nor  could  all  the  arguments  and  pleas  of  her  hostess 
dissuade  her. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go  back  to  that  place?"  pro- 
tested the  latter  complainingly.  "Why  should  any  one 
want  to  go  to  that  dirty,  ugly,  common  city?" 

"I  must.  If  I  didn't,  I  might  become  as  provincial 
as  you  New  Yorkers,"  Eleanor  insisted  smilingly. 

"I  just  know  there  is  a  man  in  it,"  her  hostess  de- 
clared petulantly. 

Eleanor  was  rather  proud  of  her  laugh.  "Two,  my 
dear." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  One  might  endure  the  Steel  City 
for  one  man,  never  for  two." 

"Nevertheless,  I'm  going  home  to-night."  But  as 
she  said  "home,"  Eleanor  felt  a  lump  rise  in  her  throat. 

She  reached  the  city  early  next  morning.  At  noon 
her  brother  came  home  to  luncheon,  much  to  her  sur- 
prise. It  was  his  custom  to  lunch  at  one  of  his  clubs. 
At  its  conclusion  he  made  no  move  to  return  to  his 
office ;  and  Sanger  was  a  busy  man. 

"Well?"  she  queried,  with  a  smile.  "Out  with  it. 
What  did  you  come  home  to  tell  me?" 


276         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Eleanor,  why  don't  you  marry  Paul  Remington?" 

"Why?" 

"He  is  in  love  with  you.  He  is  a  charming  fellow. 
I  have  taken  an  interest  in  him.  He  is  a  rising  man — 
or  can  rise  under  favorable  conditions  which  I  am 
ready  to  insure.  And,  forgive  me,  my  dear,  but — 
thirty  is  coming." 

She  smiled  pleasantly.     "I'm  not  afraid  of  thirty." 

"I'm  serious  in  this,  Eleanor,"  he  went  on  evenly. 
"It's  all  well  enough  for  you  to  ignore  the  future.  Of 
course,  you're  welcome  to  make  this  your  home  as  long 
as  you  choose  and  to  draw  on  me  for  what  you  want. 
But  the  time  will  come  when  you  won't  be  content 
with  this  arrangement.  I  have  sometimes  fancied  that 
you  are  discontented  already." 

"That  is  true,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 

"If  you  were  to  marry  Remington,  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent. You  would  have  a  home  of  your  own  and  an 
interest  in  the  future — a  big  interest,  too.  As  I  say, 
he's  a  rising  man.  Under  certain  conditions,  he  has  a 
chance  for  the  next  governorship — " 

"What  do  you  know  of  Mr.  McAdoo's  plans?"  she 
asked,  surprised. 

"McAdoo —  '  Sanger  began,  almost  venomously. 
Then  he  went  on  calmly,  "McAdoo  doesn't  necessarily 
have  the  last  word  in  these  things.  After  the  gov- 
ernorship there  is  no  reason  why  Remington  shouldn't 
go  to  Washington.  With  our  money  and  influence 
back  of  him  he  would  be  of  importance  there.  You 
and  he  could  open  an  establishment  and  you  could  be 
a  great  help  to  him.  You  would  find  it  interesting,  I 
imagine." 


STRATAGEMS  277 

"Who  guarantees  these  promises  ?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing at  him  thoughtfully. 

"I'm  willing  to  underwrite  them  myself." 

"Henry,  just  what  are  you  politically?" 

Sanger  answered  quietly.  "My  money  is  one  of 
the  sources  of  political  power.  Personally,  I  am  the 
opposition  to  McAdoo.  Or,  at  least,  I  suggested  and 
am  financing  it." 

Eleanor  was  startled.    "Why?" 

"I  think  I'll  take  you  into  my  confidence,"  he  began. 
Then  he  hesitated. 

"Why  not?"  as  if  to  himself.  "You're  a  Sanger 
through  and  through.  You'll  understand  it." 

"With  me,"  he  said,  addressing  her  directly,  "it's  a 
question  of  how  I  am  to  apply  my  ability.  I'm  only 
forty-five  years  old  and  in  perfect  health.  We  Sangers 
aren't  idlers.  I  could  go  on  and  get  together  a  tre- 
mendous fortune,  so  big  that  I'd  be  a  slave  to  it.  But 
already  I'm  worth  fifty  millions — " 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  rich !" 

"Very  few  even  suspect  it,"  he  returned  calmly. 
"That's  plenty  for  any  man,  even  in  these  days.  And 
my  holdings  are  so  disposed  that  I  have  both  time  and 
energy  to  spare  for  other  activities.  Two  years  from 
now  this  state  will  choose  a  new  senator.  The  choice, 
I  think,  will  fall  upon  Henry  Sanger,  Jr.  And  the 
minute  I  take  the  oath  of  office — " 

"If  you  do?" 

"When  I  do,  I  become  a  national  power.  My  office 
multiplied  by  my  money  and  my  backing.  The  senate 
is  the  most  powerful  body  in  our  government.  Be- 
hind me  will  be  the  influence  of  the  principal  financial 


278         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

combinations  in  the  country.  Only  one  man  in  the 
senate  has  the  backing  I  shall  have,  and  he  is  an  old 
man.  Soon  he  must  die  or  retire,  and  his  leadership 
will  fall  to  me.  I  shall  control  the  senate,  which  con- 
trols all  national  legislation."  Sanger's  eyes  began  to 
glitter. 

"And  then,  of  course,"  Eleanor  laughed,  "there  is 
the  presidency." 

"It  is  within  the  possibilities,"  he  responded  coolly. 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  inward  wonder.  "I 
thought  you  cared  only  to  make  money!  You  dream 
big  dreams,  Henry." 

"Why  not?  I  have  the  brains.  I  have  the  money. 
I  have  the  influence.  I  don't  recognize  limitations." 

He  resumed,  only  the  bright  glitter  in  his  eyes  mark- 
ing the  ripple  on  his  wonted  serenity. 

"I'm  not  talking  wildly.  For  some  time  I  have 
been  working  solely  to  this  end.  I'm  not  the  sort  to 
waste  energy.  What  I  suggest  is  now  a  certainty — but 
for  one  thing.  Between  me  and  my  ambition  there  is 
but  one  obstacle — one  man,  Robert  McAdoo." 

"Robert  McAdoo!" 

"Yes.  For  reasons  you  wouldn't  understand,  this 
city  is  the  key  to  the  situation  in  the  state.  If  McAdoo 
wins  out,  he  will  own  the  local  organization.  He  will 
hold  the  balance  of  power.  And  he  has  told  me  him- 
self that  he  intends  to  join  Murchell  and  Dunmeade. 
Not  only  that.  It  isn't  generally  known,  but  Murchell 
can  hardly  live  out  the  year.  The  present  campaign 
is  killing  him.  When  he  dies,  McAdoo  will  take  his 
place.  Dunmeade  has  big  ideas,  but  he  can't  carry 
them  out  by  himself.  That  is  the  importance  of  this 
campaign.  If  McAdoo  loses,  he  loses  his  hold  on  the 


STRATAGEMS  279 

local  organization.  It  also  lessens  his  value  to  Cousin 
John.  If  Dunmeade  is  left  to  himself,  I  have  no  fear 
of  the  result.  Of  course,  in  any  case  I  can  win  out 
eventually.  My  money  will  wear  them  out  in  the  end. 
But  their  victory  now  may  delay  my  plans  several 
years.  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  waiting.  Therefore 
McAdoo  must  get  out  of  my  way !" 

"Ah !"    She  had  heard  that  phrase  from  another. 

Sanger's  serenity  was  slowly  giving  way  to  his  in- 
ward excitement.  "Here  is  where  Remington  comes 
in.  As  it  looks  now,  McAdoo  is  sure  to  win.  He  has 
got  a  grip  on  this  city  that  I  can't  understand.  It 
is  contrary  to  all  political  precedents.  Nothing  that 
we  have  tried  so  far,  money,  organization,  newspaper 
attacks—" 

Eleanor  started.  "Henry!  Do  you  own  the  Ga- 
zette?" 

"Yes.     What  of  it?" 

"Then  you  are  responsible  for  the  slanders  against 
Mr.  McAdoo?" 

"Nonsense!  You  have  been  listening  to  the  Dun- 
meades.  We  have  published  nothing  that  hasn't  been 
essentially  true.  If  he  hasn't  been  guilty  himself,  he 
has  been  connected  with  the  men  who  were.  Which 
is  the  same  thing.  As  I  say,  nothing  we  have  tried  so 
far  has  succeeded  in  stopping  him.  But  we  have  one 
card  left  that,  I  think,  will  settle  friend  McAdoo,  if 
played  at  the  right  time  and  by  the  right  person." 

He  paused.  "He  has  been  posing  as  a  sort  of  re- 
former. What  do  you  think  the  people,  who  are  shout- 
ing themselves  hoarse  over  him  to-day,  will  think 
when  they  hear  that  the  delegates  whose  votes  nomi- 
nated him  were  bribed  with  his  money  ?" 


280         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Another  lie?" 

"I  suggest  the  use  of  another  word,  if  you  please," 
he  said  icily.  "This  is  true.  I  already  have  half  a 
dozen  affidavits  from  delegates  who  took  his  money." 

"Then  why  haven't  you  published  them  ?" 

"Because  they  won't  be  effective.  The  testimony 
of  an  accomplice  is  never  more  than  half  believed. 
The  exposure  must  come  from  a  different  source.  I 
want  Paul  Remington  to  make  the  revelation.  Think !" 
Sanger s  manner  had  lost  all  of  its  accustomed  urban- 
ity. He  was  talking  rapidly.  Through  the  narrowed 
lids  his  eyes  gleamed  fiercely.  "Think!  This  city 
is  in  the  midst  of  the  most  exciting  campaign  it  has 
ever  known.  The  whole  state  is  watching  McAdoo — 
McAdoo,  the  reformed  and  reformer.  In  the  last 
hours  of  the  campaign  the  man  who  for  years  has  been 
known  as  his  only  close  personal  friend  suddenly 
breaks  with  him  and  exposes  the  reformer  as  a  candi- 
date who  won  his  nomination  by  flat,  incontestable 
bribery!  There  isn't  a  man  living  who  could  with- 
stand the  reaction. 

"And  that,"  he  concluded,  "is  why  I  want  you  to 
marry  Remington." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I  see.  You  want  to 
use  me  as  a  bribe  to  buy  Mr.  Remington's  betrayal  of 
his  friend." 

"Bah !  Don't  be  melodramatic.  There's  no  treach- 
ery here,  no  moral  wrong.  I  offer  Remington  a  thou- 
sand times  more  than  McAdoo  could  ever  give  him. 
As  my  fellow  senator  from  this  state  he  will  have  an 
influence  and  importance  second  only  to  mine.  I  offer 
you  a  future  you  can  never  have  otherwise.  A  brainy 
woman  in  Washington  can  do  a  great  deal  to  help  me. 


STRATAGEMS  281 

You  would  be  by  partner.  As  my  sister  and  Senator 
Remington's  wife  you  would  be  welcomed  wherever 
you  chose  to  go.  And  this  is  offered  you  merely  for 
the  public  telling  of  the  truth  about  a  man  who  is 
morally  and  legally  a  criminal." 

"I  seem  to  remember,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  he 
was  driven  to  buy  the  delegates  by  Hemenway's  with- 
drawal. Do  you  always  work  through  treachery, 
Henry?" 

Sanger  assumed  an  air  of  hurt  reproach.  "My  dear 
sister,  you're  unfair.  You  defend  him  on  the  ground 
that  he  was  driven  to  dishonesty  to  meet  similar  tactics, 
but  for  the  same  action  you  criticize  me.  One  would 
almost  believe  this  demagogue  is  something  to  you." 

Her  glance  did  not  waver.  "At  least,  he  is  a  human 
being."  Then  she  continued  in  the  most  matter-of- 
fact  tone  in  the  world,  "In  short,  you  offer  me  the 
bribe  of  a  career  of  social  prominence  and  political  in- 
trigue— with  a  husband  thrown  in — " 

Sanger  had  recovered  his  composed  manner.  "My 
dear  girl!"  he  protested  urbanely,  "not  bribe!  Say 
rather  that,  since  my  sister  will  have  done  me  a  service 
of  inestimable  value,  I  will  show  my  appreciation  by 
helping  her  to  a  life  to  which  she,  better  than  any  other 
woman  I  know,  is  fitted." 

She  waved  her  hand  impatiently.  "Is  there  any 
other  way  in  which  you  will  show  your  appreciation 
and  affection?" 

"There  would  be  settlements,  of  course." 

She  studied  him  frankly.  "Henry,"  she  said  at  last, 
"I  believe — I  actually  believe — you  see  nothing  wrong 
in  your  proposal.  Have  you  no  moral  sensibility?" 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  he  answered  impatiently.     "Cer-, 


282         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

tainly  there's  nothing  morally  wrong  in  the  proposal. 
As  for  McAdoo,  I  have  no  regard  for  him.  As  a  dis- 
honest, dangerous  man  he  deserves  no  consideration 
from  any  one.  As  for  Remington,  I  serve  his  best 
interests.  As  for  you,  my  dear,  I  have  your  happi- 
ness at  heart."  His  smile  proclaimed  the  very  per- 
fection of  brotherly  affection.  "You  see,  I've  discov- 
ered your  secret.  You're  in  love  with  Remington. 
And  I  want  you  to  marry  him  under  conditions  most 
favorable  to  your  future  happiness  and  content." 

"So  you  think  I'm  in  love  with  him  ?" 

"O,  yes,"  he  laughed  easily,  "you  may  fool  your 
lover,  but  not  your  loving  brother.  I've  seen  the 
change  in  you  these  last  few  weeks.  Only  one  thing 
can  account  for  it — you're  in  love.  Who  could  it  be 
but  Remington?  You  see,  it's  very  simple." 

"I  see,"  she  said.  She  began  to  fold  and  refold  her 
napkin  absently.  Sanger  waited  patiently. 

"Well  ?"  he  suggested  at  last. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  with  a  start  and  leaned 
indolently  back  in  her  chair,  tapping  her  mouth  to  em- 
phasize her  yawn. 

"Henry,  you  are  too  crafty  by  far.  I  shan't  inflict 
you  with  hysterical  reproaches.  I  realize  there  has 
been  nothing  in  my  life — nothing  you  are  aware  of, 
at  least — to  lead  you  to  believe  your  proposal  distaste- 
ful to  me.  But  really  I  must  decline.  Of  course,  I 
quite  understand  it  would  be  useless  for  me  to  try  to 
dissuade  you  from  attacking  Mr.  McAdoo  unfairly, 
although  it  might  be  more  to  your  credit  to  cease.'' 
She  spoke  indifferently. 

Sanger  rested  his   folded  arms  on  the  table  and 


STRATAGEMS  283 

looked  at  her  steadily.  When  he  answered,  there  was 
an  edge  to  his  voice  she  had  never  heard  before. 

"You're  quite  correct.  If  it  takes  twenty  years,  I 
intend  to  crush  that  man.  Whatever  means  are  neces- 
sary I  shall  use.  The  end  justifies  them.  But  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  I  give  you  the  chance  to  bet- 
ter both  yourself  and  the  man  you  love.  I  hope  you 
won't  be  so  foolish  as  to  refuse  it." 

"Let  us  drop  the  discussion,  please." 

He  rose. 

"I'll  say  no  more  about  it,  but  I  don't  consider  the 
matter  settled.  This  is  Friday,  the  election  is  Tues- 
day. That  is  a  short  time,  but  not  too  short.  I  leave 
it  to  your  own  common  sense.  If  by  Monday  after- 
noon Remington  comes  to  me  and  subscribes  to  the 
interview  I  shall  dictate,  you'll  not  find  me  ungrateful." 

Left  alone,  Eleanor  went  up  to  her  sitting-room. 
She  threw  herself  on  a  couch  in  profound  disgust. 

"And  that  man  is  my  brother.  He's  a  thousand 
times  more  relentless  than — than  the  other.  And  the 
shameful  part  of  it  is,"  she  cried  in  bitter  self-accusa- 
tion, "that  two  weeks  ago  his  offer  would  have  tempted 
me.  No  wonder  he  hates  us." 

When  Sanger  reached  his  office  he  telephoned  to 
Paul,  asking  him  to  call  on  him  at  some  convenient 
time.  Paul,  who  had  eagerly  perused  the  morning's 
stock  market  reports,  appeared  with  exemplary 
promptness.  Sanger  met  him  pleasantly. 

"I  merely  wanted  the  pleasure  of  giving  you  this 
myself."  And  he  handed  Paul  a  check. 


284         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Paul  took  it  and  stared  at  it,  as  though  fascinated. 
Then  his  face  broke  into  a  boyish,  gleeful  smile. 

"Mr.  Sanger,"  he  laughed,  "this  is  the  finest  bit  of 
literature  ever  written.  You  can't  know  what  it  means 
to  me." 

"What  will  you  do  with  it?"  Sanger  queried  with 
smiling  curiosity. 

Paul  waved  the  check  gaily  through  the  air.  "O, 
man,  don't  ask  me.  My  mind's  all  a  jumble,  like  a 
youngster's  the  night  before  Christmas.  But,"  he 
added,  suddenly  becoming  earnest,  "I  mustn't  forget 
I  owe  it  to  you.  Mr.  Sanger,  it  has  been  mighty  gen- 
erous of  you.  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you.  I  can 
never  repay  you." 

"Nonsense!  I  charged  you  interest  for  the  margin 
money.  You  owe  me  nothing — but  a  box  of  cigars." 
He  pushed  a  box  across  the  desk  toward  Paul.  "Here's 
the  brand  I  smoke.  Try  one." 

He  chose  a  cigar  for  himself  and  pointed  it  peremp- 
torily at  Paul. 

"Now  sit  down.  Put  that  check  in  your  pocket  and 
out  of  your  mind.  The  transaction  is  closed,  absolutely 
and  for  ever,  as  between  us — always  excepting  that 
box  of  cigars.  You're  worth  so  many  dollars,  thanks 
to  your  tip  from  drunken  Brown.  You  will  find 
matches  over  there."  He  leaned  to  light  his  cigar 
from  Paul's  match.  When  both  cigars  were  drawing 
nicely,  Sanger  sank  back  in  his  chair  and  for  the  third 
time  took  Paul  into  the  high  mountain. 

"Remington,  I  like  you.  I  don't  give  a  personal 
interest  to  many  people.  I'm  not  sentimental ;  I'm  as 
unromantic  as  a  cold  in  the  head.  But  you're  an  ex- 
ception. That  was  why  I  confirmed  Brown's  tip.  It 


STRATAGEMS  285 

was  my  only  reason.  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
it  had  no  connection  with  what  I'm  going  to  say.  I 
expect  you  to  accept  or  refuse  my  proposal  without 
considering  this  stock  transaction.  Will  you  listen  to 
me  on  those  terms  ?" 

Paul,  foreseeing  what  was  coming,  steeled  himself, 
looking  at  the  check  with  troubled  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "on  those  terms." 

Sanger's  nod  was  frankness  itself.  "Thank  you.  I 
can  now  talk  freely. 

"Remington,"  he  continued,  "I  don't  know  what 
you  think  of  me — probably  that  I'm  a  mere  money 
grubber  and  that  my  political  interest  is  purely  finan- 
cial. That  is  wrong.  I  take  you  into  my  confidence. 
I  have  personal  political  ambitions.  You  perhaps  un- 
derstand me  well  enough  to  know  that  my  ambitions 
can't  be  small.  Remington — "  every  time  his  name 
vras  repeated  Paul  started  as  though  he  had  received 
an  electric  shock — "I  want  to  be  the  next  senator  from 
this  state." 

"Senator!"  Paul  exclaimed  in  unfeigned  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes,  Remington,  twice  I  have  asked  you  to  help 
me.  Twice  you  have  refused.  Will  you  tell  me 
frankly,  why?" 

"You  have  yourself  charged  me  with  being  a  friend 
of  the  people,"  Paul  parried,  trying  to  speak  jocularly. 

Sanger  leveled  an  accusing  finger  at  Paul,  his  face 
twitching  mirthfully.  "Remington,  I'm  not  a  fool. 
You  don't  care  a  two-penny  damn  for  the  people." 

"Still  there  are  honor  and  loyalty,  you  know,"  Paul 
said  gravely. 

"Honor?  Whose  honor?" 


286         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Mine." 

"Loyalty — to  whom?" 

"To  the  man  who  has  made  me  politically  valuable 
to  you — to  McAdoo." 

"Why  should  you  be  loyal  to  him  ?" 

"Because  he  has  been  loyal  to  me." 

"Honor!  Loyalty!  McAdoo!  Ha!"  Sanger's  snort, 
a  departure  from  his  usual  suave  manner,  expressed 
the  very  depth  of  disgust. 

"Mr.  Sanger,  your  tone — " 

"If  my  tone  doesn't  speak  the  highest  regard  for 
you,"  Sanger  interrupted  forcefully,  "I  express  my- 
self poorly.  I  admire  your  loyalty  and  respect  you 
for  it.  You're  an  example  to  put  us  more  selfish  men 
to  shame.  But  when  I  learned  how  you  have  been 
played  upon,  on  my  soul  I  pitied  you." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  Sanger  thought  he  detected 
a  note  of  anxiety  in  Paul's  words. 

"I  mean  that  you're  the  victim  of  base  ingratitude. 
Treachery,  I  call  it.  You  may  not  know  how  strong 
I  am  in  state  politics.  Take  my  word  for  it,  I  am  so 
strong  I  could  go  to  McAdoo,  as  I  did,  and  offer  to 
make  him  boss  of  the  state — " 

"Why,  that  is  his—" 

"Yes,  that  is  his  ambition.  You  know  him  better 
than  I  do.  Therefore  I  needn't  tell  you  he  is  swayed 
by  no  lofty  ideals  of  political  purity." 

"No,"  Paul  laughed,  striving  to  give  the  conversa- 
tion a  humorous  tone.  "Bob  is  a  politician." 

"But  he  refused.  When  a  man  like  him  refuses  the 
chance  to  realize  his  pet  ambition,  he  can't  lay  it  to 
noble  ideals.  He  has  lower  motives.  His  motive  in 
this  case  isn't  hard  to  find — he  hates  me — and  my  sis- 


STRATAGEMS  287 

ter?"  The  last  words  were  a  chance  shot.  Paul 
stirred  uneasily  in  his  seat. 

"Yes,  he  hates  you — and  Mrs.  Gilbert." 

"That  isn't  all.  Part  of  my  offer  was  to  make  you 
the  next  governor — " 

"What!  Me  governor!  It  is  more  than  I  have 
dared  to  dream  of,  so  soon." 

"But  not  more  than  you're  worthy  of.  However, 
there's  no  use  discussing  that,  since  it  was  included  in 
his  refusal.  He  placed  his  hate  of  me  and  my  sister 
higher  than  his  loyalty  to  you." 

"Man,  don't !"  The  cry  told  Sanger  that  he  had  at 
last  penetrated  a  joint  in  Paul's  armor.  "Mr.  Sanger, 
I — I  beg  of  you — " 

Sanger  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  finger  leveled  at  Paul. 
"Remington,  wait !  For  once  you  shall  hear  the  truth 
straight.  You're  the  victim  of  your  romanticist's 
dreaming.  You  talk  of  honor!  Is  it  honor  that  lets 
you  be  played  the  fool  by  a  man  who  uses  you  to  lift 
himself  to  political  heights  but  refuses  to  carry  you  up 
with  him?  You  talk  of  loyalty.  Loyalty  is  a  fine 
thing — when  mutual!  But  what  is  it,  when  the  man 
to  whom  you  give  it  and  from  whom  you  have  earned 
it  won't  ignore  a  petty  hatred  when  by  doing  so  he 
could  make  you  governor  of  this  state?" 

A  pen  which  Paul  had  been  fumbling  snapped  sud- 
denly. "Mr.  Sanger,"  he  cried  pleadingly,  "I  must 
ask  you  to  end  this — " 

"Remington,  you  shall  hear  me  out.  O,  he  has 
played  a  pretty  game !  He  has  blinded  you  with  false 
political  theories,  that  he  might  keep  the  upper  hand 
of  you.  In  his  pretended  omniscience  he  has  predicted 
a  wonderful  uprising  of  the  people  in  the  future — he 


288         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

doesn't  say  when,  always  in  the  future,  one  of  those 
to-morrows  that  never  come.  He  says,  'Let  us  be 
friends  of  the  people — because  it's  going  to  pay  some 
day.'  He  teaches  you  to  be  a  hypocrite — like  himself. 
But  what — "  Sanger  concluded  dramatically,  "what 
do  you  think  the  people — the  dear,  dear  people ! — will 
think  of  your  friend  next  Monday,  when  they  learn 
that  the  great  reformer  won  his  nomination  by  bribing 
the  delegates  of  the  convention  ?" 

Paul  rose  uncertainly  to  his  feet,  staring  wildly  at 
Sanger.  "My  God!  no!  That  can't  be  true.  It's 
some  damned  lie — " 

"And  do  you  think,"  Sanger  insisted  triumphantly, 
"that  you,  his  chief  supporter,  can  clear  your  skirts  of 
the  mud  ?" 

"Mr.  Sanger,  what  proof  have  you  of  this?" 

"Read  that,  and  that,  and  that,  and  these."  Sanger 
caught  up  and  tossed  to  Paul  a  sheaf  of  documents. 

With  trembling  hands  and  a  sickening  sensation 
at  his  stomach,  Paul  read  through  the  papers.  They 
were  affidavits  of  delegates,  setting  forth  the  facts  of 
their  bribing.  When  he  had  read  them  through  he 
dropped  weakly  into  his  chair. 

"Good  God!"  he  groaned,  covering  his  face  with 
bis  hands.  "Good  God!" 

"It's  hard  on  you,  I  know,"  Sanger  said  gently. 
"And  it  adds  to  my  determination  to  crush  the  man 
who  seeks  to  drag  you  into  his  disgrace.  Remington ! 
twice  you  have  refused  to  come  with  me.  I  ask  you 
again,  and  for  the  last  time.  The  offer  I  made  to 
McAdoo  I  repeat  to  you.  And  when  your  term  as 
governor  is  ended,  you  and  I  will  work  together  as 
senators  from  the  greatest  state  in  the  union.  All  I 


STRATAGEMS  289 

ask  is  that  you  publicly  cut  loose  from  McAdoo,  dis- 
avowing your  own  connection  or  knowledge  of  his 
corrupt  practices.  Here  is  your  reason."  He  tapped 
the  sheaf  of  affidavits. 

Paul's  hand  dropped  to  the  table,  and  he  looked 
up  at  Sanger,  a  hunted  look  in  his  eyes.  "Have  you 
no  mercy?" 

Sanger  suddenly  leaned  over  and  grasped  him  by 
the  arm. 

"Mercy!  I  have  told  you  I  like  you,  man.  When 
you  and  I  are  the  two  most  powerful  members  of 
the  most  powerful  branch  of  our  government,  you 
won't  talk  of  mercy.  I  ask  you  nothing  wrong.  Only 
what  is  your  duty,  to  the  people  who  have  been 
deceived,  and  to  yourself.  And — "  he  hesitated. 
"And  I  have  more  reasons  than  one  for  liking  you. 
I  hope  soon  to  know  you  in  a  closer  relation — "  He 
paused  artistically. 

Paul  shook  his  head  despondently.  "No,  I  fear 
there's  no  hope  for  me." 

Sanger  shook  his  arm  vigorously.  "For  shame, 
man !  Faint  heart,  you  know —  And  my  own  opinion 
is  that  you  have  no  reason  to  be  faint  of  heart." 

Paul  turned  white,  his  heart  gave  a  great  throb. 
Even  Sanger  was  touched  by  the  passionate  joy  that 
flashed  across  Paul's  face. 

"Do  you  really  believe—  ''  Paul  began  to  stammer 
incredulously. 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  Sanger  said  quietly.  "And  I'm 
glad  of  it.  Come,  burn  your  bridges."  He  tapped 
the  sheaf  of  affidavits  again.  "You  know  best  whether 
she  wants  you  to  do  it  or  not." 

The  joy  faded  from  Paul's  face,  he  answered  in  a 


290         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

despairing  cry,  "God  help  me!  Nothing-  seems  right. 
Nothing  is  clear.  I  must  stand  by  him.  I  can't  do 
what  you  ask — and  I  can't  say  no." 

He  turned  and  fled  from  the  temptation,  as  though 
pursued  by  an  overwhelming  enemy.  As  indeed  he 
was. 

Sanger  watched  his  exit  with  narrowed  eyes.  "But 
he  didn't  return  the  check/'  he  thought  cynically — 
and  hopefully. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  BREACH 

HE  Saturday  afternoon  before  election  day  found 
-A-  Bob  in  his  office,  pacing  back  and  forth  as  rapidly 
as  the  restricted  quarters  would  allow.  He  was  on  the 
verge  of  a  physical  breakdown,  although  his  lack 
of  experience  of  bodily  ills  hid  the  fact  from  him. 
He  was  beset  by  a  wearing  restlessness  that  did  not 
permit  of  physical  inaction.  From  the  outer  room 
came  the  monotonous  click-click  of  Miss  Jones'  type- 
writer. He  flung  open  the  door,  an  irritable  protest 
on  his  lips.  He  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  industrious 
Miss  Jones  yawn,  daintily  but  wearily.  The  irritable 
protest  changed  its  form. 

"Miss  Jones,  close  that  typewriter  and  go  home. 
You've  worked  enough." 

She  looked  up,  astounded.  Bob's  orders  generally 
meant  more  work  for  her. 

"But  there  are  still  nearly  a  thousand  of  these  en- 
velopes to  address,"  she  protested. 

"Never  mind  them,"  he  said  gruffly.  "You've  been 
working  too  hard.  You  need  a  rest." 

Miss  Jones  laughed,  but  with  inward  quaking  for 
her  boldness.  "I  guess  you'd  better  look  into  a  mir- 
ror before  you  call  anybody  down  for  working  too 

291 


292         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

hard."  She  opened  a  drawer  of  her  desk  and  held 
up  a  hand-mirror  for  his  inspection. 

"Humph!     Not  very  good-looking,  am  I?" 

"Oh!"  Miss  Jones  declared  wisely.  "Men  don't 
need  to  be.  It's  much  nicer  for  them  to  be  big  and 
strong.  To  be  good-looking  wouldn't  suit  you  at  all." 
she  added  with  generous  intent  to  comfort. 

"No,  it  wouldn't  suit  me,"  he  growled. 

Miss  Jones,  somewhat  embarrassed,  quickly 
changed  the  subject. 

"Mr.  McAdoo,  we're  going  to  win,  aren't  we?" 

"We?" 

She  nodded.  "I'll  feel  awful  bad  if  you  lose.  So'll 
a  lot  of  people." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  "I  thought  you  didn't 
like  me?'" 

The  blonde  head  shook  vigorously. 

"That's  ambiguous,  Miss  Jones." 

She  looked  up  -to  discover  whether  or  not  he  was 
laughing  at  her ;  his  face  was  quite  serious.  There  was 
no  ambiguity  in  her  emphatic  nod.  "I  was  afraid  of 
you,"  she  confessed  shyly,  "till  I  found  out  you're 
cross  only  on  the  outside.  You  try  to  be  cruel,  but 
you  aren't." 

"Where  did  you  pick  up  that  nonsense?" 

"Well,"  she  answered  diffidently,  and  rather  at  a 
loss  to  explain  her  intuition,  "that  newsboy  that  was 
hurt  and  you're  sending  to  school.  And  you'd  do  any- 
thing for  Mr.  Remington." 

"More  than  he  would  do  for  me,  I  suspect,"  he  said 
sadly.  The  words  slipped  out  before  he  was  aware 
of  it. 

Miss  Jones,  vaguely  conscious  that  something  was 


THE  BREACH  293 

wrong  and  that  sympathy  was  in  order,  hastily  re- 
opened the  drawer  and  unearthed  a  box  of  candies. 

"Have  some.  They're  good  and  fresh,"  she  in- 
vited timidly. 

Awkwardly  his  big  fingers  picked  out  a  daintily 
wrapped  sweet.  He  smiled  in  spite  of  himself  at 
her  evident  attempt  to  comfort  him. 

"They're  to  eat,  you  know,"  she  suggested,  setting 
him  the  example.  "You  hold  it  as  though  you  didn't 
know  what  to  do  with  it." 

"I  don't  know  what  they  taste  like,"  he  confessed. 
"When  I  was  a  kid,  I  didn't  get  candies.  I  was  only 
a  tough  little  newsie.  I  chewed  tobacco." 

Miss  Jones  laughed  outright.  "Oh !"  she  exclaimed 
in  frightened  apology.  "You  said  that  in  such  a 
funny-bitter  way." 

"Laugh  away.  I  don't  mind,"  he  said  gruffly.  "I'd 
laugh  myself  if  I  could  get  the  right  point  of  view. 
Now  you  close  that  desk.  You've  done  enough  this 
campaign.  When  we  win,  we'll  divide  the  credit." 

Miss  Jones  went  home,  very  much  amazed  and  even 
more  proud  of  the  big  politician's  sudden  friendli- 
ness. So  much  elated,  in  fact,  that  the  same  evening 
she  finally  accepted  the  young  man  who  worked 
across  the  corridor  and  gave  her  candy.  And  Bob 
went  back  to  his  little  room,  wondering  at  the  com- 
fort a  bit  of  human  sympathy  carries  with  it,  even 
if  it  is  only  the  awkward,  unintelligent  sympathy  of 
one's  vain  little  stenographer. 

Later,  Paul  entered  the  outer  office.  Bob  nodded 
through  the  open  door. 

"Hello,  Paul." 

"Good  afternoon,"  Paul  answered  with  cold  formal- 


294         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

ity,  and  passed  into  his  own  office,  carefully  closing 
the  door  behind  him.  Bob  hesitated.  Then  he  went 
to  Remington's  door.  He  was  on  the  point  of  enter- 
ing without  warning,  as  had  always  been  their  custom, 
but  he  paused  abruptly  and  knocked. 

"Come,"  was  the  curt  answer. 

Bob  entered.  He  stood  waiting  for  the  invitation 
to  sit  down.  As  it  was  not  forthcoming,  he  calmly 
sat  down  without  it.  Neither  spoke  at  first,  Paul 
pretending  to  be  busy  arranging  the  papers  on  his 
desk.  The  smoke  from  Bob's  tobacco  filled  the  room. 
The  silence  became  uncomfortable.  Paul  was  the  first 
to  break  it. 

"Why  in  thunder  don't  you  smoke  something 
besides  those  rotten  tobies?"  he  exclaimed  petulantly. 

Bob  took  the  offending  toby  from  his  mouth  and 
looked  at  it  in  mild  surprise.  "You're  becoming  too 
aristocratic  for  a  politician.  I  was  brought  up  on 
tobies  and  lately  I've  taken  to  them  again."  He  re- 
placed the  "toby"  in  his  mouth  and  emitted  a  cloud 
of  strong,  pungent  smoke.  Another  silence  ensued. 

At  last  Paul  dropped  his  papers  and  glanced  coldly 
at  Bob. 

"Well?     You've  come  for  something,  I  suppose?" 

Bob  watched  the  curling  smoke  a  moment  before 
answering. 

"I  see  your  tip  was  good,  after  all.  Did  you  go  in 
on  it?" 

For  answer  Paul  opened  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and 
drew  out  the  check  that  Sanger  had  given  him  and 
which  he  had  not  yet  deposited.  He  handed  it  across 
the  table.  Bob  read  it  over  twice  before  he  looked 
at  Paul. 


THE  BREACH  295 

"That's  a  good  deal  of  money,"  he  said  quietly. 
"More  than  the  average  man  earns  in  a  lifetime.  You 
made  it  in  a  week,  without  lifting  a  finger.  When 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  that  isn't  fair,  is  it?" 

"As  a  moralist,  you're  not  a  conspicuous  success," 
Paul  retorted  coldly.  "The  point  is,  I  have  the  money. 
Beyond  that,  nothing  is  to  be  said." 

"Yes,"  Bob  assented  with  a  sudden  unwonted  air 
of  cheerfulness.  "Who  staked  you?" 

Paul's  head  went  up  a  trifle,  defiantly.     "Sanger." 

"Sanger!" 

"I  gave  you  the  chance  first." 

"But  Sanger's  an  enemy.  It's  bad  policy  to  get 
under  obligations  to  a  man  you've  got  to  fight,"  Bob 
answered  evenly. 

"Your  enemy,  you  mean,"  Paul  sneered.  "Not 
mine,  as  this  check  proves." 

"Evidently."     Bob  looked  out  of  the  window. 

Another  silence,  again  broken  by  Paul.  "See  here, 
McAdoo!" 

Bob  turned  slowly  at  the  name.  "Yes?  You've 
upset  the  ink — "  he  paused — "Paul."  There  was  a 
slight  emphasis  on  the  name,  which  Paul  did  not  heed. 
The  latter  seized  a  blotting  pad  and  impatiently 
mopped  up  the  ink.  Then  he  turned  again  to  Bob. 

"There  are  some  things  you  and  I've  got  to  come  to 
an  understanding  about." 

"And  they  are—?" 

"In  the  first  place,  why  did  you  take  me  up  ?" 

"You've  asked  me  that  before." 

"Don't  temporize.     I  ask  it  again." 

Bob  smiled.  "You  seem  to  have  put  me  on  the  wit- 
ness stand.  However,  I'm  not  bound  to  answer." 


296         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Aren't  you?"  Paul  said  with  an  ugly  laugh. 
"Maybe  I  can  answer  for  you.  It  strikes  me  you 
took  me  up  to  make  use  of  me  and  to  keep  me  down 
where  I  could  never  demand  what  I've  earned.  That's 
true,  isn't  it?" 

"It  strikes  you  that  way?  A  few  thousand  dollars 
put  a  different  light  on  a  good  many  things,  don't 
they?"  Bob  inquired  with  suspicious  gentleness. 

"Save  your  insults  for  your  hired  heelers,"  Paul 
struck  the  table  angrily.  "I'm  not  one  of  them." 

Bob  threw  away  his  consumed  toby  and  took  a 
cigar  from  his  pocket.  "Since  you  object  to  my 
tobies,  I'll  try  a  cigar."  He  held  a  match  to  it  and 
puffed  vigorously  several  times. 

"Is  there  anything  else  Sanger — your  friend  Sanger 
— suggested  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  Paul  declared  with  angry  vehemence,  "he  is 
my  friend.  I  want  that  understood.  As  for  what  else 
he  has  suggested — I've  learned  from  him  what  you 
didn't  dare  tell  me,  that  he  offered  to  help  make  me 
governor,  and  you  refused." 

"Well,  what  of  it?  You  wouldn't  have  me  take 
up  that  offer,  would  you?" 

"Why  not?" 

"I  might  refer  you  to  a  certain  speech  of  yours  for 
reasons." 

"Bah!"  Paul  threw  out  his  arms  in  a  gesture  of 
supreme  disgust.  "Don't  try  to  come  that  slush  on 
me.  The  role  of  sanctimonious  Pharisee  doesn't  suit 
you,  McAdoo.  We're  in  this  game  to  help  ourselves. 
Be  decent  enough  to  admit  that  to  yourself,  even  if 
you  are  fooling  the  silly  public." 

"So  you  class  us  all  together,  you  and  Sanger  and 


THE  BREACH  297 

me — liars,  hypocrites,  bunco-steerers?  Proceed  with 
the  indictment.  There  are  other  counts,  I  suppose  ?" 

"You  seem  to  take  it  all  as  a  joke,"  Paul  exclaimed 
bitterly.  "But  I  suppose  you  have  a  right  to  consider 
me  a  joke,  after  the  way  I've  played  the  fool  for 
you." 

Bob  heard  this  outburst  impassively  to  all  outward 
seeming.  "What  do  you  expect?  Sentimental 
protestations?  You'd  have  the  right  to  take  me  as  a 
joke,  if  I  did  that.  Proceed." 

"Very  well,"  Paul  continued  sharply,  pressing1  his 
lips  together  tightly.  "My  next  count  confirms  what 
I  said  about  your  unfitness  for  the  virtuous  role — " 

"One  moment!"  Bob  raised  a  deprecating  hand. 
"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  wiser — at  least,  more 
charitable — to  moderate  your  expressions  a  bit?" 

"No!  I  propose  to  call  things  by  their  proper 
names  for  once.  O,  I  admit  I  was  fooled  with  the 
rest.  I  supposed  that  McAdoo  had  reformed  his 
methods,  at  least,  if  not  his  ideals — until  I  was  in- 
formed that  you  bribed  the  delegates  whose  votes 
nominated  you." 

"You  get  this  from  Sanger?" 

"Yes.  Even  your  enemies  know  of  it.  You're 
at  their  mercy  now." 

"I  see,"  Bob  nodded  thoughtfully.  "Some  of  Malas- 
sey's  work,  I  suspect." 

"You  mean  to  say  it  isn't  true?"  Paul  demanded 
quickly. 

"No.  The  delegates  were  bribed,  all  right.  Sanger, 
through  his  agents,  had  already  bribed  them  the  other 
way.  I  supposed  you  knew  that." 

But  Paul,  rather  heavily  let  down  though  he  was 


298         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

by  this  phase  of  the  matter,  was  too  far  gone  in  his 
mood  to  retreat. 

"No,"  he  said  surlily.  "I  didn't  know  it.  You  may 
recall  that  I  was  never  taken  into  your  confidence 
very  fully.  But  even  so,  you  had  no  excuse  for  using 
methods  that  must  discredit  others  with  you." 

Bob  smiled  queerly.  "You're  right,  unquestion- 
ably." 

"What's  to  hinder  me  from  saving  my  reputation 
by  disclosing  the  whole  transaction  to  the  public?  I 
can  do  it,  now  you've  confessed  your  guilt." 

"Nothing  in  the  world  to  hinder,"  Bob  replied. 
Only  the  fall  of  his  cigar,  bitten  through,  indicated 
any  feeling.  "Is  there  anything  more?"  He  care- 
fully flicked  the  ashes  from  his  coat. 

"Yes !"  Paul  went  on  impetuously,  his  mood  gather- 
ing momentum.  "There's  one  thing  more.  It — it 
concerns  Airs.  Gilbert." 

Bob's  apparent  cheerfulness  shaded  off  into  quiet, 
expectancy.     He  looked  at  Paul  steadily. 

"What 'of  Mrs.   Gilbert?" 

"I  refer  to  your  officious  interference  between  her 
and  myself,"  Paul  continued.  "I  confided  to  you 
my  regard  for  her.  You  took  it  upon  yourself  to 
object  to  it.  You  even  went  so  far  as  to  call  upon 
her—" 

"I  did." 

"I  believe  I  am  right  in  saying  that  your  conversa- 
tion concerned  me — " 

"Yes." 

" — and  that  you  gave  her  to  understand,  how 
directly  I  can  only  imagine,  that  you  opposed  our 
intimacy?" 


THE  BREACH  299 

"Yes." 

"You  carried  your  interference  so  far  that  Mrs. 
Gilbert  has  refused  to  marry  me  unless  you  withdraw 
your  opposition.  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I 
consider  your  action  an  unwarranted  intrusion  into 
my  private  affairs.  I  refuse  to  be  bound  by  your 
prejudices.  I  am  competent  to  live  my  own  life  with- 
out your  supervision.  I  don't  propose  to  endure  your 
meddling-.  You  understand,"  his  voice  rose,  "I  won't 
stand  it." 

"You  make  yourself  entirely  clear,  I  think,"  Bob 
said  evenly. 

"Furthermore,  since  you've  intruded  your  opposi- 
tion, I  expect  you  to  withdraw  it,  finally  and  abso- 
lutely. Otherwise — "  His  pause  was  ominous. 

"That's  hardly  necessary.  Ypu're  not  a  minor,  nor 
am  I  your  guardian,  that  my  consent  is  necessary. 
You  will  be  able  to  persuade  Mrs.  Gilbert  to  take  that 
view,  I  think — and;  threats  do  no  good." 

Bob  made  an  effort  to  smile.  It  was  not  a  smile 
you  would  care  to  see  more  than  once,  the  smile  of  a 
strong  man  trying  to  conceal  bitterest  suffering  and 
humiliation.  By  a  trick  of  fancy  Paul's  angry,  hand- 
some face  seemed  to  fade  away  and  in  its  stead  Bob 
saw  the  face  of  a  stricken  woman.  .  .  .  Modern 
invention  had  lifted  them  far  above  the  noises  of  the 
street.  The  two  men  were  alone  in  the  midst  of  a 
heavy,  oppressive  silence.  Both  knew  that  they  had 
come  to  the  parting  of  the  ways.  In  time  to  come 
a  new  footing  might  be  established,  but  the  old  inti- 
mate relation  could  never  be  resumed.  Words  had 
been  spoken  that  neither  could  forget. 

I  think  that  even  then  Paul  would  have  retracted 


300         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

his  words,  had  Bob  offered  him  an  opening.  He  had 
not  planned  the  conversation,  but  when  it  was  begun 
Bob's  composure  had  goaded  him  to  reckless  lengths. 
Now  he  began  dimly  to  perceive  how  deeply  he  had 
struck.  He  broke  the  silence  with  what  was  almost 
an  appeal. 

"Have  you  anything  to  say?" 

Bob  shook  his  head  slowly.  "No,  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said — now.  They  were  counting  on  you 
to  make  a  speech  to  the  executive  committee  this 
afternoon.  I  suppose  you  will  not  be  there?" 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders  helplessly.  "No,  I 
have  an  appointment  with  my  manicure.  I  have  a 
weakness  for  clean  hands,  you  know." 

He  caught  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  walked  out  of 
the  office. 

As  the  door  closed,  the  mask  of  Bob's  composure 
fell  from  him.  The  smile  disappeared.  His  shoulders 
drooped  and  his  head  fell  forward. 

"Paul!"  he  whispered.     "Paul!" 

How  he  got  through  the  rest  of  the  day  Bob  hardly 
knew.  In  the  evening  there  was  the  final  rally,  to 
which  flocked  thousands  and  from  which  hundreds 
more  were  turned  away  for  lack  of  room.  Bob  made 
a  speech,  but  his  recollection  of  that  effort  is  hazy. 
When  he  rose  to  speak,  the  waves  of  applause  came  to 
his  ears  as  the  far-away  thunder  of  the  sea.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  mild  surprise  when  his  words  were 
broken  in  upon  by  frequent  expressions  of  enthusiastic 
approval  from  his  audience ;  he  himself  felt  no  interest 
in  what  he  was  saying.  When  his  speech  was  con- 
cluded and  the  last  outburst  of  enthusiasm  had  died 
away,  he  quietly  left  the  meeting  and  went  home. 


THE    BREACH  301 

The  Flinn  family  was  gathered  in  the  library.  At 
the  sound  of  the  closing  door  they  rushed  out  to  meet 
him,  eager  for  tidings  of  the  rally ;  even  Patrick,  whom 
rheumatism  had  converted  into  a  profanely  protesting 
stay-at-home,  hobbling  painfully  out  to  the  hall.  But 
when  they  saw  Bob,  they  forgot  all  about  the  meeting. 
Kathleen  put  her  hand  to  his  forehead. 

"Bob,  you  are  ill,"  she  said  anxiously. 

"It's  th'  docthor  he'll  be  havin'  th'  night,  won't  ye, 
Bob  ?"  Norah  pleaded. 

"An'  a  glass  av  whisky  to  wanst,"  added  Patrick. 
"Norah,  run  away  an' — " 

"No.  I  want  nothing,"  Bob  said,  in  a  tone  that  was 
not  to  be  gainsaid,  and  passed  up  to  his  room. 

"Let  him  alone  for  a  while,  mother,"  Kathleen  said. 
"We  can't  help  him."  And  she  turned  away  to  hide 
her  tears,  tears  that  she  could  not  share  the  sorrow 
of  a  man  who  had  crushed  the  romance  out  of  her 
life. 

In  his  room  Bob  threw  himself  wearily  into  a  chair 
by  his  desk  and  brooded  hopelessly.  He  went  over 
and  over  the  events  of  the  past  few  weeks,  listening 
again  and  again  to  Paul's  bitter  words  of  the  after- 
noon. He  relentlessly  tore  at  his  wounds  until  they 
gaped,  taking  a  kind  of  savage  joy  in  his  self-castiga- 
tion. 

"Just  one  thing  more  is  needed,'*  he  said  to  himself 
bitterly.  "I  will  get  out  of  his  way — out  of  her  way." 

He  seized  a  pen  and  began  painfully  to  write. 

Then  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  telephone  at  his  elbow. 
He  dropped  the  pen  and  opened  the  directory.  When 
he  had  found  the  number,  he  closed  the  book  and  lay 
back  in  his  chair,  staring  at  the  telephone. 


302         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

At  last  he  roused  himself  and  savagely  jerked  the 
receiver  from  its  hook. 

"Highland  thirty  thirty —  Yes. — Is  that  Highland 
thirty  thirty — will  you  call  Mrs.  Gilbert  to  the  tele- 
phone ? — Robert  McAdoo." 

There  was  a  long  wait,  during  which  all  his  will 
was  needed  to  keep  him  at  the  telephone. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Gilbert,"  came  the  answer  at  last. 
She  need  not  have  named  herself;  he  recognized  her 
voice. 

"I  am  Robert  McAdoo." 

"Yes,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

"Mrs.  Gilbert,"  the  words  were  forced  out  painfully. 
"Mrs.  Gilbert,  some  time  ago  I  called  on  you  about  a 
certain  matter.  You  may  remember?" 

"I  remember." 

"At  that  time  I  objected  to  a  course  of  action  which 
you  had  planned — " 

"Which  you  supposed  I  had  planned,  Mr.  McAdoo," 
came  the  quick  correction. 

"It  makes  no  difference.  In  either  case,  what  I  said 
was  an  unwarranted  interference  in  matters  that  did 
not  concern  me.  Are  you  still  there  ?" 

"I  am  still  here." 

"I  wish  to  say — "  he  dragged  the  words  out  slowly 
— "I  wish  to  say,  I  withdraw  my  opposition — finally 
and  absolutely." 

A  pause. 

"That  is  not  necessary,"  Mr.  McAdoo. 

"I  realize  that  my  opposition  would  not  influence 
you—" 

"That  is  not  what  I  meant — " 

" — but  I  owe  it  to  you  and  to — to  Paul  Remington 


THE   BREACH  303 

— to  make  the  withdrawal.  I  wish  to  say  that  I  do 
this  of  my  own  free  will,  not  because  of  any  threats 
made  to  me.  Are  you  still  there,  Mrs.  Gilbert?" 

"Yes." 

"There  is  another  matter.  I  once  said  a  brutal — a 
contemptible  thing  to  you.  You  will  remember  that. 
I — I  had  no  right  to  say  that  to  you — no  reason." 

"You  had  no  right,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

"I— I  apologize,  Mrs.  Gilbert.    That  is  all." 

"Mr.  McAdoo!" 

"Yes?" 

"This  is  generous  of  you.  But  there  is  another 
thing  more  important.  I  have  been  wondering  how 
to  bring  it  to  your  attention.  Can  you  hear  me 
plainly  ?  I  don't  dare  to  speak  very  loudly." 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  McAdoo,  there  is  a  plot — a  shameful  trick — 
it  concerns  your  election — and  possibly  Mr.  Reming- 
ton— I  feel  it  my,  duty  to  warn  you — " 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"I  am  sure  you  can  not  know  of  this  that  I  speak 
of—" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  I  know  of  it.  You  have  done 
your  duty.  You  may  now  enjoy  watching  the  plot 
work  out.  It  will  succeed,  in  my  opinion.  That  is 
all." 

"But,  Mr.  McAdoo—" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  slouched  back  into  his 
chair.  His  head  throbbed  violently.  A  roar,  like  the 
far-away  thunder  of  the  sea,  was  in  his  ears.  He  was 
very  tired. 

Later,  Norah  stole  into  his  room.  She  went  to  his 
side  and  anxiously  felt  his  head  and  hands. 


304         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Bob,  ye' re  goin'  to  be  mortial  sick,  I'm  afeared," 
she  said  pleadingly,  "ye'll  be  gittin'  into  yer  bed  now, 
won't  ye,  an'  be  bavin'  a  docther  in  th'  marnin'  ?" 

"Yes,  Norah,"  he  agreed  dully,  too  tired  to  contra- 
dict. "Whatever  you  say." 

Impulsively  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck 
and  drew  his  head  to  her  ample  bosom,  as  she  had  re- 
ceived the  little  runaway  waif  years  before. 

"Me  poor  laad !"  she  crooned.  "Me  poor  laad !" 

Then  she  kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  the  only  time 
she  had  ever  dared  to  kiss  him  since  the  day  of  his 
coming  into  the  family  of  Flinn,  and  left  him — prone 
among  the  ruins  of  his  temple  of  Self,  which  he  had 
taken  such  pains  to  build. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  POSEUR 

DURING  the  last  hours  of  his  temptation  Paul  had 
no  illusions  as  to  what  he  was  about  to  do  or  why 
he  wanted  to  do  it. 

Deliberately  he  whipped  himself  into  a  passion 
against  Bob.  He  knew  that  the  deed  required  of  him 
by  Sanger  was  one  against  which  fair-minded  men, 
seeing  only  from  the  outside,  could  not  consistently 
animadvert.  But  he  felt  also  that  to  him  it  was  a  dis- 
honor, a  treachery  against  which  his  better  instincts 
revolted.  He  resented  the  stirring  of  these  instincts 
and,  with  a  natural  inconsistency,  blamed  Bob  as  the 
one  who  had  called  them  into  play.  Steeping  himself 
in  this  resentment,  he  sought  to  nerve  himself  to  the 
point  where  he  could  defy  and  override  better  instinct. 
He  was  not  fighting  against  his  temptation,  but  strug- 
gling to  succumb;  knowing  that  he  would  do  the 
thing  contemptible  in  his  own  eyes,  but  longing  anx- 
iously for  some  additional  goad  to  his  resolution ;  feel- 
ing instinctively  that  there  had  been  no  sham  or  wav- 
ering in  his  friend's  loyalty,  but  praying  for  some  new 
excuse  for  anger  against  that  friend;  seeing  himself 
clearly  always. 

"The  poseur  again !"  he  thought  bitterly  in  the  clar- 

305 


306         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

ity  of  his  vision.  "Always  the  poseur!  Lacking  the 
strength  even  for  straightforward  villainy.  I  do  him 
a  kindness  to  rid  him  of  me.  And  even  there  I  lie. 
It  will  hurt  him — he  can  suffer — and  I  don't  care !" 

Then  came  the  conversation  in  the  office,  where 
Bob's  proud  stoicism,  not  unlike  amused  indifference 
in  its  outward  expression,  had  lashed  Paul  into  un- 
reasoning, bitter  anger.  From  that  moment  to  yield 
became  hourly  easier. 

After  a  sleepless  night,  he  rose  late  Monday  morn- 
ing. He  heaped  fresh  coal  on  the  grate,  coaxing  the 
dying  embers  into  a  roaring  blaze.  Then  he  spent  a 
few  minutes  in  vigorous  exercise  with  the  dumb-bells, 
followed  by  a  cold  shower.  After  a  quick,  hard  rub- 
down,  he  dressed  very  carefully.  The  mirror  told  him 
that  his  sleeplessness  had  left  no  trace  other  than  the 
faint  shadows  under  the  eyes  and  a  slight  pallor  that 
was  very  becoming.  More  than  ever,  it  seemed  to 
him,  did  the  face  he  saw  resemble  the  face  he  had  used 
to  see  in  the  ivory  miniature.  But  the  resemblance 
had  ceased  to  warn ! 

He  went  out  and,  boarding  a  car,  rode  down-town  to 
his  favorite  grill-room,  where  he  sat  for  more  than 
an  hour  dawdling  languidly  over  his  breakfast.  For 
another  hour  he  tramped  the  streets  listlessly,  steer- 
ing an  aimless  course  through  the  bustling  crowds. 
A  faint,  not  unpleasant  melancholy  fell  upon  him,  such 
as  sometimes  comes  to  one  who  beholds  an  autumn 
sunset  or  the  unhappy  denouement  of  a  play.  He 
lingered  luxuriously  in  the  mood,  tasting  its  flavor. 

"Like  the  flavor  of  a  rare  old  wine,"  thought  this 
connoisseur  of  sensations.  He  walked  on,  sipping  the 
intoxicating  draft. 


THE  POSEUR  307 

He  came  to  a  corner  where  stood  a  blue-goggled 
beggar,  industriously  turning  the  crank  of  a  wheezy 
hand-organ  and  wearing  a  placard,  "Please  Help  the 
Blind."  Paul  stopped  before  him. 

"You're  probably  a  fraud,"  he  said,  thinking  aloud. 
"But  so  am  I.  We  frauds  must  help  one  another. 
For  good  luck  !'\  And  he  dropped  a  handful  of  silver 
change  into  the  beggar's  cup.  The  blind  beggar  looked 
wonderingly  at  him  through  the  blue  goggles,  as  Paul 
walked  away. 

His  course,  without  conscious  intention,  led  him 
to  the  First  National  Bank  Building.  Nor  was  he 
conscious  of  any  exercise  of  will,  one  way  or  the  other, 
as  he  entered  the  elevator  and  was  whisked  to  Sanger's 
offices.  Sanger  greeted  him  cordially,  with  no  out- 
ward sign  of  exultation.  Paul's  only  sensations  were 
surprise  that  it  was  so  easy  and  matter-of-fact — and 
somewhat  of  a  disappointment  that  it  was  so  flat  and 
tasteless — this  treachery  upon  which  he  had  brooded 
so  forebodingly.  He  read  the  formal  statement  twice 
before  signing;  he  could  not  realize  that  it  meant  the 
end  of  six  years'  friendship,  the  beginning  of  a  new 
scheme  of  existence  for  him.  Only  when  the  notary 
administered  the  oath,  did  he  feel  a  qualm.  A  slight 
shiver  passed  over  him.  Then  he  laughed  uncertainly. 
He  drew  a  deep  breath,  of  relief — he  thought — that  it 
was  over.  The  melancholy  returned. 

His  next  stop  was  at  a  telephone  booth,  where  he 
called  up  the  Sanger  home.  In  response  to  his  inqui- 
ries, Eleanor's  maid  informed  him  that  madam  was 
not  at  home.  She  had  gone  down-town  in  the  automo- 
bile. When  did  madam  expect  to  be  at  home? 
Madam  had  left  word  that  she  would  not  be  at  home 


3o8         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

until  very  late  in  the  afternoon,  intending  to  lunch 
down-town.  Madam  had  signified  her  intention  of  go- 
ing to  a  certain  department  store  to  do  some  shopping. 

Paul  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  steered  a  straight 
course  for  the  department  store  designated.  With  a 
sigh  of  relief  he  espied  the  big,  hooded  automobile 
standing  before  the  entrance  to  the  store.  The  chauf- 
feur was  fussily  examining  the  machine.  Paul  stopped 
and  abstractedly  watched  him.  The  latter  touched  his 
hat,  importantly  continuing  his  labors,  which  seemed 
to  be  superfluous.  Paul  sat  in  the  machine  and  waited, 
smoking  dreamily.  An  hour  later  he  heard  a  surprised, 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

He  turned  quickly,  his  eyes  lighting  up  warmly, 
"Waiting  for  you." 

She  laughed.  "I  was  so  vain  as  to  guess  that.  Are 
you  going  somewhere  ?  Perhaps  we  can  set  you  down 
there?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  a  proprietary  air,  "I'm  going  to 
luncheon.  And  you  are  coming  with  me." 

"Is  that  an  invitation  ?  Then  I — accept.  I'll  let  you 
into  a  secret.  I  have  been  wretchedly  lonely  all  morn- 
ing. I  came  shopping  just  to  escape  it.  And  I  was 
dreading  the  prospect  of  an  afternoon  alone  in  that  big, 
empty  house." 

"Then  I'm  twice  glad  I  waited." 

He  opened  the  door  and  they  both  entered  the  car. 
James  cranked  and  deftly  dodged  through  the  crowded 
thoroughfares  toward  the  restaurant  Paul  had  chosen. 

Within  the  car  they  sat  in  a  frank,  intimate  silence. 
Paul,  looking  gravely  out  of  the  window,  evinced  an 
unusual  disinclination  to  talk,  and  Eleanor,  wondering 
whether  she  had  been  wise  to  accept  his  invitation,  was 


THE  POSEUR  309 

glad  enough  to  humor  his  mood.  Her  coming  had  not 
dissipated  the  melancholy  that  enveloped  him;  she 
merely  added  a  sort  of  mellow  sweetness  that  made  the 
flavor  exquisitely  delicious  to  him.  An  agreeable  phys- 
ical languor  overspread  him.  His  eyes,  bent  on  the 
crowded  sidewalks,  saw  nothing. 

He  turned  dreamily  to  her. 

"You  shouldn't  be  lonely,"  he  said  in  the  hushed 
tone  one  would  use  at  a  death-bed,  "since  you  have 
for  company — you." 

"I  find  myself  sorry  company  sometimes,"  she  an- 
swered with  an  attempt  at  brightness. 

His  beautiful  woman's  mouth  curved  in  a  dreams 
smile.  "It  is  company  worth  any  sacrifice  to  win." 

"How  little  you  know  me !"  she  replied,  laughing  at 
the  triteness  of  the  remark. 

He  made  as  if  to  speak,  but  desisted,  and  turned  to 
stare  again  out  of  the  window. 

When  the  car  came  to  a  stop  before  the  restaurant, 
they  alighted  and  went  in.  The  head  waiter,  with  the 
obsequiousness  of  one  who  before  then  had  tasted  the 
generosity  of  this  particular  patron,  led  the  way  to  a 
small  table  in  a  secluded  corner  of  the  room.  When  he 
had  given  his  order,  Paul,  with  her  permission,  lighting 
a  cigarette,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  inhaled  the 
smoke  slowly.  A  hidden  string  band  droned  out  some 
soft,  sentimental  music.  The  voices  of  other  diners 
rose  in  a  subdued  murmur.  A  potted  hyacinth  on  the 
table  exuded  its  strong,  sweet  odor  which,  mingling 
with  the  aroma  of  his  tobacco,  came  soothingly  to  his 
nostrils.  Eleanor,  at  loss  to  account  for  his  new 
vagary  and  rendered  a  little  uneasy  by  it,  tried  to  break 
in  on  it  by  making  conversation.  He  gave  vague,  ir- 


3io         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

relevant  answers.  The  waiter  served  their  luncheon. 
Paul  made  only  a  pretense  of  eating. 

"You're  eating  hardly  anything,"  she  said.  "Aren't 
you  well?" 

For  answer  he  pointed  to  her  own  plate,  hardly 
touched. 

"I  had  a  very  late  breakfast,"  she  explained. 

"So  had  I.  Hush !"  he  almost  whispered.  "Let  us 
not  talk." 

With  a  half-contemptuous  shrug  of  her  shoulders 
she  gave  over  the  attempt  to  disturb  him.  She  won- 
dered how  she  could  ever  have  deceived  herself  into 
the  belief  that  she  could  love  or  that  she  wanted  to  love 
him. 

"It  was  pity  only,"  she  thought.    "Always  pity." 

Paul  abandoned  even  the  pretense  of  eating,  watch- 
ing the  wavering  smoke  of  his  cigarette  and  steeping 
himself  luxuriously  in  his  mood.  But  the  bitter-sweet 
melancholy  grew  deeper.  And  gradually  the  sweetness 
of  its  flavor  was  lost,  leaving  only  the  bitterness ;  it  sat 
upon  him  heavily,  oppressively.  He  had  drunk  too 
deeply  of  his  draft.  A  vague,  disturbing  fear  crept 
into  his  heart.  He  stirred  uneasily,  lowering  his  eyes 
to  meet  hers.  He  looked  at  her  long  and  steadily.  In 
that  look  it  was  given  him  to  know  that  she  would 
never  grant  him  what  he  asked  of  her;  the  fair  hope, 
inspired  by  Sanger's  words,  died  within  him. 

"Eleanor,  Eleanor't"  he  cried,  softly  pleading.  "It 
isn't  true?" 

"What  isn't  true?"  she  asked,  though  she  knew  the 
answer. 

"That  you  will  never  love  me  ?"  he  whispered  trem- 
ulously. 


THE  POSEUR  311 

She  put  out  her  hand  uncertainly,  as  though  she 
would  lighten  the  blow. 

"No,"  she  said  pityingly.  "I  can  never  love  you  as 
you  wish." 

He  caught  her  hand  in  his  own.  In  their  secluded 
corner  they  were  safe  from  observation,  though  neither 
thought  of  that. 

"Ah!  dear,  don't  say  that!  You  don't  know  how 
great  my  love  for  you  is.  It  is  the  one  reality  in  my 
life.  You  remember  what  I  told  you,  how  I  knew  you 
would  come  into  my  life  some  day?  That  was  true. 
I  have  always  loved  you,  even  before  I  saw  you.  And 
I  always  shall  love  you — I  will  make  up  to  you  what 
suffering  has  taken  out  of  your  life — " 

Tears  came  to  her  eyes.  "Paul,"  she  said  sadly,  "it 
hurts  me  to  tell  you — " 

"Don't!  I'm  willing  to  wait — even  unto  death — to 
win  from  you  one  thousandth  of  what  I  give  you.  My 
love  isn't  a  thing  of  the  moment,  but  of  all  time.  I 
don't  ask  you  to  love  me  now,  only  not  to  send  me 
away  for  ever.  I'll  try  so  hard  to  please  you,  to  cast 
out  of  my  life  everything  that  is  inconsistent  with  my 
love — even  to  break  with  the  man  who  has  stood  be- 
tween us — " 

"No,  no !"  she  cried  involuntarily,  her  fingers  tight- 
ening around  his  hand.  "You  mustn't  desert  him !  It 
wouldn't  be  honorable — " 

"Ah!  there  is  neither  honor  nor  shame,  right  nor 
wrong,  kindness  nor  cruelty,  loyalty  nor  treachery — 
only  you — always,  supreme !" 

She  drew  her  hand  sharply  from  his  clasp.  "Ro- 
mantic phrases!"  she  said  scornfully.  "There  are  suf- 
fering and  sin  and  remorse,  there  would  be  his  unhap- 


3i2         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

piness  and  the  knowledge  that  we  had  caused  it.  Do 
you  think  I  could  be  so  mean,  so  little,  as  to  seek  hap- 
piness at  that  price  ?" 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  passing  his  hand 
across  his  brow  in  bewilderment.  "You  said  your- 
self, once — " 

"Ah!  yes,"  she  answered,  softening.  "I  have  no 
right  to  be  angry  with  you,  since  it  was  I  who  first 
suggested  it  to  you.  That  is  my  shame.  Believe  me, 
what  I  said  then  was  spoken  in  a  miserable  selfishness 
far  worse  than  I  have  accused  him  of.  I  had  no  right 
to  say  it.  I  see  that  now.  And  I  see  my  act  in  all  its 
contemptible  unwomanliness." 

"I  don't  understand — " 

"What  you  ask  is  impossible,"  she  went  on  sadly. 
"But  even  if  I  could  care  for  you,  I  couldn't  accept 
happiness  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  man  who  cares  for  you 
so  deeply,  who  has  done  so  much  for  you." 

He  smiled  bitterly.  "There  is  something  you  don't 
understand.  I  seem  to  have  praised  him  to  better  ef- 
fect than  I  thought.  But  my  eyes,  too,  have  been 
opened.  He  has  been  the  first  to  sacrifice  me.  You 
probably  don't  know  that  your  brother  offered  to  help 
him  elect  me  governor,  but  was  refused.  My  friend 
refused  to  sacrifice  a  policy  for  my  sake." 

"He  hasn't  told  you?" 

"Your  brother  has  told  me — " 

"I  mean,  Mr.  McAdoo  hasn't  told  you  that  he  went 
to  the  capital  and  agreed  finally  to  join  John  Dun- 
meade  on  the  condition  that  they  support  you  for  gov- 
ernor next  year?" 

Paul  stared  at  her,  bewildered,  stunned.  "He  did 
that?"  he  asked  slowly,  incredulously. 


THE  POSEUR  313 

"Yes." 

His  arms  fell  limply  to  his  side.  For  some  minutes 
he  sat  motionless.  When  he  looked  up  again,  his 
handsome  face  was  marred  by  a  sneer. 

"You  pleading  for  him !  You  seem  to  have  executed 
the  volte  face" 

She  flushed.  "I  have  no  right  to  resent  that  The 
one  thing  a  woman  asks  of  a  man  is  loyalty.  She 
should  be  the  last  to  seek  to  turn  it  away  from  another. 
That  I  have  done  so  is  my  shame." 

He  shook  his  head  in  perplexity.  "You  have 
changed  since  you  went  away." 

"I've  found  out  that  the  world  wasn't  created  merely 
for  my  pleasure,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"After  all,"  he  continued,  after  a  minute's  pause, 
during  which  he  studied  her  intently,  "the  governor- 
ship is  a  little  thing.  The  thing  in  which  he  has  been 
falsest  was  in  coming  between  us.  If  he  hadn't  done 
that,  you  could  have  loved  me.  That  Sunday — when, 
you  sang — you  almost  cared  for  me.  And  you  would 
have  let  yourself  love  me — had  it  not  been  for  him. 
Even  now  you  wouldn't  refuse  me  finally — were  it  not 
for  his  opposition.  I  realize — something  tells  me — it- 
is  useless  to  plead  with  you.  But  he  and  I  have  come 
to  the  end." 

She  hesitated,  flushing  again  at  the  thought  that  she 
was  defending  a  man  who  despised  her. 

"You're  mistaken,"  she  said  gently.  "That  isn't  my 
entire  reason.  He  has  told  me  that  he  no  longer  ob- 
jects. He  proves  his  friendship  by  that." 

Again  Paul  fell  back  limply  in  his  chair.  "He — has 
—told— you— "  he  gasped.  "When?" 

"Saturday  night — over  the  telephone." 


314         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"It  was  too  late — too  late !" 

The  music  of  the  string  band  and  the  voices  of  the 
other  diners  receded,  he  lost  sense  even  of  the  presence 
of  the  woman  before  him.  He  felt  miserably  alone. 
Life  had  dealt  hardly  by  him,  he  thought  bitterly; 
there  was  no  hint  of  self-blame  in  his  bitterness.  His 
heart  contracted  in  a  spasm  of  exquisite  sorrow. 
Wealth,  career,  fame,  happiness,  all  things  which  he 
had  made  his  objectives  seemed  in  a  moment  to  have 
lost  their  sweetness.  Thenceforth  nothing  was  left  to 
him  but  to  carry  the  burden  which  life  had  put  upon 
him.  He  could  see  a  pathetic  picture  of  himself  plod- 
ding, plodding,  plodding  wearily  around  a  dusty  circle 
that  led  nowhere,  bending  under  the  cruel  burden,  the 
burden  growing  heavier  at  every  step,  until  at  last  he 
broke  under  it  and  sank  to  rise  no  more.  It  was  all 
very  sad  and  beautiful.  Tears  of  self-pity  stood  in  his 
eyes. 

"The  end  of  the  dream!"  he  sighed.  "It  was  too 
good  to  be  true.  Nothing  remains  but  a  memory — the 
deathless  memory  of  what  might  have  been."  Even  in 
his  bitterness  he  could  turn  his  pretty  phrase. 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes,  too.  "You'll  forget.  I'm 
not  worth  even  a  memory." 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling  sadly.  He  clung  lov- 
ingly to  the  picture  of  the  arid,  dusty  circle  and  the 
weary,  heavy-laden  plodder;  perhaps,  when  at  last  he 
sank,  she  would  be  there  to  bear  witness  to  his  beauti- 
ful constancy — she  might  even  shed  a  regretful  tear 
over  the  fallen  form. 

I  think  that  in  that  moment  her  sorrow  was  more 
genuine  than  his.  She  could  with  difficulty  preserve 
the  steadiness  of  her  voice,  as  she  spoke. 


THE  POSEUR  315 

"I  have  no  right  to  ask  you  anything.  I  haven't 
been  fair  with  you.  But  I  am  fair  with  you  now — I'm 
trying  to  atone  for  my  selfishness — when  I  say,  go 
back  to  him  and  forget  me.  You  are  all  he  cares  for, 
and  he  is  far  more  worthy  of  your  love  than  I  am. 
You  will  find  your  true  happiness  working  with  him 
and  John  Dunmeade.  And  I — I  will  go  away  where 
you  can  both  forget  me  and  I  can  no  longer  stand  be- 
tween you.  I,  not  he,  have  been  the  marplot." 

"It's  too  late,"  he  said  listlessly.  "He  and  I  have 
parted  for  ever." 

"It  is  never  too  late  to  atone  for  a  fault.  Be  gener- 
ous to  me,  if  not  to  him,"  she  pleaded  anxiously. 

.The  quality  of  his  smile  changed.    "To  you?    What 
is  he  to  you  ?" 

"He  is  a  man  who  despises  me — justly,"  she  an- 
swered steadily.  "He  is  a  man  whom  my  brother  is 
cruelly  seeking  to  destroy  and  to  whom  I  have  care- 
lessly, selfishly,  done  the  greatest  injury  one  can  do  to 
another.  Paul,  I  know  how  my  brother  is  tempting 
you.  You  will  not  do  what  he  wants,  please  say  you 
will  not.  See,  I'm  putting  aside  my  woman's  pride  to 
plead  for  a  man  who  hates  me.  Because  if  you  do 
what  Henry  wants,  I  must  always  feel  that  the  crime 
is  mine." 

"Its  too  late!    It's  done!" 

"Paul!" 

A  man  at  the  next  table  turned  sharply,  hearing  the 
low,  gasping  cry.  He  looked  away  again  quickly.  The 
cry  pierced  even  Paul's  self-pity.  He  saw  her  face  go 
death-white;  a  piteous,  stricken  look  crept  into  her 
eyes.  An  unbelievable,  stunning  thought  stirred  in  his 
heart. 


316         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Do  you  mean  that  you — " 

The  sadly  beautiful  picture  faded.  The  pity  of 
self — of  the  man  upon  whom  circumstance  had 
played  so  hardly — died.  He  saw  his  deed  in  all  its 
shamefulness,  its  nakedness  of  defense.  The  sense  of 
unreality  fell  from  him.  He  saw  the  misery  he  had 
wrought.  .  .  . 

"What  have  I  done?" 

"What  have  we  done?1" 

Mechanically  he  fumbled  for  a  bill  and  threw  it  on 
the  table.  He  rose  from  his  seat.  As  mechanically, 
she  followed  him  out  of  the  restaurant  into  the  street. 

He  gave  her  one  long  look,  in  which  she  saw  writ- 
ten all  his  shame.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  turned 
and  left  her.  She  watched  him,  until  his  figure  was 
lost  in  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  XX 

to 
SANGER'S  CARD 

THE  big  anteroom  of  the  Republican  headquarters 
was  filled  by  an  excited,  noisy  crowd;  it  was  the 
afternoon  before  election  day.  No  one  seemed  able  to 
stand  in  one  spot  for  two  consecutive  minutes ;  no  one 
thought  of  sitting.  All  smoked  and  spit  incessantly. 
Every  one  talked  as  loudly  as  possible.  Disjointed 
scraps  of  conversation  mingled  oddly : 

"Sure  to  win,  it's  a  cinch."  "Ten  to  three  McAdoa 
wins,  is  best  odds."  "They  say  Larkin's  thrown  up 
the  sponge."  "Old  man's  sick,  I  hear."  "Twentieth'll 
go  for  Larkin,  though."  "Hell!  don't  be  a  Jew — 
even  money  McAcloo  wins  by  ten  thousand."  "Sick, 
nothin' !  Couldn't  kill  McAdoo  with  dynamite."  "The 
Fourth'll  make  the  Twentieth  look  like  thirty  cents, 
when  the  majorities  come  in."  "Tom  Haggin  told  me 
so  himself."  "Five  to  ten  he  wins  by  more  than  ten 
thousand."  "Where  in  hell  does  Larkin's  money  come 
from — that's  what  I'd  like  to  know."  "Typhoid,  Hag- 
gin  says  the  doctor  says."  "Told  the  doctor  to  go  to 
the  devil  and  came  down-town."  "Haven't  seen  much 
of  MacPherson  this  campaign."  "O,  Mack's  a  dead 
one  an'  knows  it."  "That's  like  the  old  man — nothin' 
feazes  him,  you  bet." 

3*7 


318         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

And  so  on  during  the  afternoon,  the  crowd  shifting 
nervously,  stranger  addressing  stranger  in  the  political 
freemasonry,  new-comers  taking  the  places  of  those 
who  left. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  bomb  was  exploded  in  the 
midst  of  the  crowd. 

A  man,  breathless  and  red-faced,  burst  into  the 
room.  He  rushed  to  the  group  nearest  the  door. 

"Remington's  thrown  McAdoo  down!"  he  shouted 
hoarsely. 

"Aw,  hell !"  was  the  derisive  answer. 

"I  tell  you—" 

"Chronicle!  Extry!  Great  s'nsashun!  All  'bout 
Remington's  exposher !" 

A  strident-voiced  newsboy  ran  into  the  room,  wav- 
ing a  paper  around  his  head.  Great  red  letters  flared 
on  the  sheet.  There  was  an  instant  scramble  to  reach 
him,  men  shoving  one  another  and  snatching  papers 
that  others  had  paid  for.  In  a  twinkling  the  supply  was 
exhausted  and  the  newsboy  ran  out  to  replenish.  He 
left  behind  him  a  dazed,  stricken  crowd.  Three  or 
four  men  gathered  around  each  newspaper,  over  one 
another's  shoulders  straining  to  read  the  news.  It  was 
plain  enough — a  few  lines  of  bold  type,  leaded  out 
for  sake  of  prominence — the  affidavit  of  Paul  Reming- 
ton setting  forth  Robert  McAdoo's  confession  to  the 
use  of  bribery  in  winning  his  nomination.  The  news 
once  read,  papers  fell  from  nerveless  hands.  Men 
stared  at  one  another  with  scared,  uncomprehending 
eyes.  An  overwhelming  personal  calamity  seemed  to 
have  fallen  on  every  one.  Even  the  hangers-on  felt  it. 
All  stood  in  painful,  awkward  silence. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  faltering  cry.     "It's — 


SAXGER'S  CARD  319 

it's  a  damned  lie !''  The  speaker  was  a  young  man — 
new  to  politics — who  had  met  Bob  during  the  cam- 
paign and  had  become  one  of  the  big  man's  most  ar- 
dent followers.  He  was  an  earnest  young  man  who 
cherished  high  ideals  of  civic  duty  and  purity. 

"I  won't  believe  it,"  he  repeated,  raising  his  voice 
appealingly.  "It's  all  a  lie!" 

An  uneasy  murmur  rose.  Somehow  no  one  could 
deny  the  affidavit. 

Just  then  Haggin  came  through  one  of  the  rear 
doors,  coatless,  hat  shoved  back,  a  cold  cigar  sticking 
at  an  aggressive  angle  from  his  mouth. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  guys?"  he  demanded 
sharply.  "That's  the  noisest  silence  I  ever  heard  " 

One  of  them  handed  to  him  a  paper.  He  read  slowly. 

"My  God!"  he  gasped,  stunned  as  were  the  others. 
"My  God!" 

One  of  the  petty  gamblers  was  the  first  to  recover 
self-possession. 

"Guess  that  changes  the  odds,"  he  laughed  harshly. 
"Three  to  ten  on  Larkin !  No?  Make  it  four  to  ten ! 
Five  to — " 

Suddenly  Haggin  whirled  on  the  gambler.  His  big 
fist  shot  out  and  sent  the  gambler  crashing  to  the 
floor.  Haggin  did  not  give  a  second  glance  to  the 
fallen  man.  He  wrung  his  hands  distractedly,  as  does 
a  woman  in  trouble. 

"My  God !"  he  groaned  again,  mumbling  the  words 
uncertainly.  "I  dun  no  what  to  do.  He's  a  sick  man — 
doctor  said  typhoid — got  out  o'  bed  to  come  down- 
town— he's  comin'  here  now — don't  let  him  know, 
an' —  '  His  voice  rose  in  a  hoarse  bellow.  "God  curse 
Remington  for  a  dirty  traitor !" 


320         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

Haggin's  oath  was  echoed  by  a  quick,  indistinct 
murmur.  They  were  men,  most  of  them,  to  whom 
Deity  was  merely  a  word.  They  were  in  the  habit  of 
using  the  name  of  God  carelessly,  frankly,  as  a  meta- 
phor to  express  any  emotion.  The  murmur  was  a 
confused  medley  of  coarse  blasphemies. 

A  man  near  the  door  cursed  sickeningly.  "He's 
coming!"  The  murmur  ceased  instantly. 

A  carriage  drew  up  before  the  ramshackle  building. 
Out  of  it  stepped  Bob  McAdoo — the  man  who  never 
before  had  needed  a  vehicle  for  his  comings  and  go- 
ings. He  was  a  very  sick  man;  every  one  saw  that. 
A  two  days'  old  stubble  of  beard  accentuated  the  hag- 
gardness  of  his  face.  The  eyes  glittered  glassily.  On 
his  sunken  cheeks  glowed  two  bright  red  spots.  His 
closely  clenched  lips — a  narrow  red  line — showed  that 
only  will  kept  him  up.  As  he  passed  from  the  carriage, 
fretfully  waving  aside  the  driver  who  had  sprung 
down  to  assist  him,  he  almost  tottered.  The  hand  that 
reached  for  the  door-knob  trembled  visibly.  Curiously 
enough,  no  one  thought  to  open  the  door  for  him ;  all 
stood  watching  him  in  a  sort  of  frightened  fascination, 
as  though  they  saw  a  brother  passing  to  his  execution. 
The  earnest  young  man  who  cherished  civic  ideals  felt 
a  sudden  physical  nausea;  he  wanted  to  run  away,  but 
could  not.  They  all  stepped  back,  leaving  a  narrow 
aisle  through  which  Bob  might  pass. 

He  opened  the  door  and  passed  slowly  along  the 
narrow  aisle,  nodding  mechanically.  At  the  end  of  the 
aisle  he  came  face  to  face  with  Haggin  and  the  bleed- 
ing gambler.  Then  the  strange  silence  struck  in  on 
him.  He  raised  his  head  sharply,  the  lips  parting  a 
little. 


S ANGER'S  CARD  321 

"What  is  it?"  he  said.  His  voice  was  high  pitched 
and  querulous. 

From  the  street  came  the  strident  voice  of  the  news- 
boy. He  was  too  far  away  for  his  words  to  be  distin- 
guished, but  he  was  coming  rapidly  nearer. 

"For  Christ's  sake!  stop  that  newsie,"  a  man  ex- 
claimed involuntarily. 

"Shut  up,  you  fool!"  another  answered  gruffly,  by 
his  words  accomplishing  the  very  result  he  hoped  to 
avert. 

"What  is  it?  Why  stop  the  newsie?"  The  tone 
was  still  sharp  and  querulous. 

The  young  man  who  cherished  ideals,  standing  be- 
fore Bob,  sought  to  hide  his  paper  behind  his  back. 
The  movement  caught  Bob's  attention.  Just  before 
the  paper  disappeared  behind  the  young  man's  back, 
he  saw  in  big,  flaring,  red  letters,  "Reming — " 

He  held  out  his  hand.    "Give  me  that  paper." 

The  young  man  stared  at  him  mutely,  a  scared  look 
coming  into  his  eyes. 

"Give  me  that  paper!"  Bob  repeated  fiercely.  He 
caught  the  young  man  by  the  shoulder,  swung  him 
around  roughly  and  seized  the  paper. 

Then  he  unfolded  it  and  read.  The  crowd  looked 
on  in  dumb  discomfort;  somehow  every  one  present 
found  himself  suffering  horribly.  Even  the  gambler 
forgot  to  mop  his  bleeding  nose. 

As  he  saw  the  flaring  head-line,  Bob  felt  his  heart 
contract  convulsively.  There  was  a  sudden  sharp 
throb  in  his  brain  and  then  a  strange  numbness  spread 
through  him.  He  read  through  the  affidavit  without 
being  able  to  comprehend  what  it  meant — there,  in  its 
bold  type,  it  seemed  so  impersonal,  so  much  the  thing 


322         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

which  he  was  used  to  see  in  the  newspapers,  that  he 
could  not  realize  that  it  was  Paul's,  his  friend's,  public 
disavowal  of  him.  He  read  it  a  second  time,  and  still 
it  did  not  seem  real ;  the  numbness  persisted.  He  tried 
to  read  it  for  the  third  time — but  he  could  not  keep  his 
mind  on  the  bold  letters — the  words  made  no  sense  at 
all.  That  tendency  of  his  mind  which  had  troubled  him 
all  through  the  day — to  wander  away  from  the  matter 
at  hand — asserted  itself  more  positively  than  ever.  A 
vague,  meaningless  smile  twisted  his  lips,  though  his 
brow  contracted  petulantly.  He  looked  at  the  young 
man. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  His  hand  passed  before  his 
eyes.  "I — I  don't  understand." 

The  young  man  sobbed  aloud. 

"It  isn't  true,  Mr.  McAdoo?    Say  it  isn't  true." 

Bob  looked  at  him,  the  smile  still  playing  about  his 
mouth. 

"Is  it  bad?"  The  querulousness  was  gone.  The 
voice  was  tired  and  gentle.  "Then  it's  true — whatever 
it  is." 

The  crowd  stood  stupidly  mute.  The  young  man 
sobbed  again.  He  caught  one  of  Bob's  hands  in  both 
his  own. 

"I  don't  care  if  it  is  true,"  he  said  brokenly.  "I'll 
stand  by  you."  He  turned  to  face  the  others  and 
through  unshamed  tears  looked  defiance  at  them.  They 
stirred  uneasily.  A  mutter  of  approval  arose. 

Bob  exerted  all  his  will  to  bring  back  his  straying 
mind  to  the  thing  before  him,  to  realize  what  it  was 
that  made  these  men  stand  around  him  in  stupid 
silence.  .  .  .  Irrelevant  scenes  of  his  life  seemed 
determined  to  recall  themselves.  He  was  in  the  mills, 


S ANGER'S  CARD  323 

amid  the  incessant  roar  of  the  machinery.  .  .  . 
Then  he  faced  a  big,  strong  man  whose  arms  shot  back 
and  forth  with  the  speed  and  force  of  piston  rods, 
landing  blows  that  made  his  body  ache  all  over.  .  .  . 

The  paper  had  fallen  from  his  hands.  He  was  stand- 
ing rigidly  upright,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  feverish, 
glittering  eyes  taking  no  account  of  the  present.  Hag- 
gin  took  a  step  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  Bob's 
shoulder. 

"Bob,"  he  said,  and  no  one  wondered  then  at  the 
gentleness  in  the  old  prize-fighter's  voice.  "Ye're  sick. 
Let's  go  home,  Bob." 

Bob  started.  He  looked  at  Haggin  with  a  puzzled, 
childish  frown. 

"Eh,  Tom  ?  I  came  to  see  you  about  something — I 
forget  what.  It  was  something — I'm  always  forget- 
ting to-day — Tom,  let  MacPherson  go  to  thunder,  and 
you  and  I'll  go  home/' 

Haggin — still  coatless,  hat  shoved  back,  the  cold 
cigar  mechanically  held  by  the  clenched  teeth — took 
one  of  Bob's  arms,  the  earnest  young  man  caught 
the  other.  Together  they  half-led,  half-supported  him 
to  the  carriage.  Then  they  got  in  with  him  and  drove 
away. 

There  was  a  rustle,  as  the  men  in  the  crowd  changed 
their  attitudes  stiffly.  Then  some  one  laughed  un- 
pleasantly. 

"Don't!"  another  rebuked  him  complainingly. 
"Don't  laugh.  I  feel  like  I'd  just  seen  a  man  hung." 

The  speaker  elbowed  his  way  to  the  door  and  passed 
out  into  the  noisy  streets.  The  rest  followed  him,  leav- 
ing the  headquarters  silent  and  deserted  by  all  but  the 
caretaker. 


324         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

In  the  carriage  Haggin  and  the  young  man  took  the 
front  seat,  carefully  helping  Bob  to  the  other.  He 
partly  sat,  partly  reclined  in  the  corner,  his  head  drop- 
ping loosely  forward  until  the  chin  almost  rested  on  his 
chest,  his  eyelids  partly  closed  over  the  glittering,  star- 
ing balls. 

Sunday  morning  Norah  Flinn  had  found  him  doz- 
ing fitfully  over  his  desk.  He  had  obeyed  her  com- 
mands listlessly  and  gone  to  bed.  All  day  he  had  lain 
there  alone — having  forbidden  the  others  to  minister 
to  him — tossing  restlessly  from  side  to  side,  trying  to 
fall  asleep.  But  pains  in  his  abdomen  and  back  and 
head  had  effectually  warded  off  sleep.  Wild,  discon- 
nected thoughts  had  coursed  tumultuously  through  his 
mind.  Detached  scenes  from  his  life — seeming  sinister 
enough,  some  of  them ! — had  flashed  before  him.  In 
the  evening  Kathleen  had  firmly  defied  his  orders  and 
had  called  a  doctor.  The  latter,  after  a  short  exami- 
nation, had  declared  that  his  patient  was  in  for  an  at- 
tack of  typhoid  fever. 

Through  that  night  Bob  slept  but  little.  And  by 
that  time  he  was  glad  to  be  awake ;  for  when  he  slept, 
horrible,  racking  dreams  tormented  him.  He  chafed 
over  the  interminable  night,  longing  for  daylight  to 
come  and  dispel  the  sense  of  unreality  that  hung  op- 
pressively over  him.  When  the  doctor  came  late  next 
morning,  he  found  his  patient  out  of  bed  and  labori- 
ously dressing.  The  doctor  protested,  calling  it  utter 
madness.  Bob  grimly  continued  his  preparations  to 
go  down-stairs.  The  doctor  made  as  if  to  use  force  to 
put  him  back  into  bed.  Bob  suddenly  turned  on  him, 
his  eyes  gleaming  hotly  and  his  lips  drawn  back  wolf- 
ishly,  and  snarled, 


SAXGER'S  CARD  325 

"You  get  out  of  here,  d'ye  see  ?"  He  drew  back  his 
arm  as  if  to  strike. 

The  doctor,  with  a  gesture  of  despair,  ceased  to  pro- 
test, warning  Bob,  however,  of  the  danger  of  going 
out — a  warning  that  was  unheeded.  But  when  the  sick 
man  started  down-stairs,  he  could  hardly  realize  that 
he  was  himself,  so  weak  and  unsteady  were  his  great 
limbs.  Yielding  perforce  so  much  to  his  illness,  he  tele- 
phoned for  a  carriage  to  take  him  to  his  office.  For 
most  of  the  day  he  sat  there,  going  over  and  over  the 
details  of  the  morrow's  plans.  He  had  need  of  all  his 
will  power,  too,  to  keep  his  mind  fixed  on  the  work  be- 
fore him.  At  last,  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  discovered 
some  matter  which  he  thought  needed  correction,  a 
trifling  detail  but  one  which  in  his  morbid  mental  con- 
dition he  exaggerated  into  fatal  proportions.  He  went 
down  to  his  carriage  and  was  borne  to  the  head- 
quarters. 

There  the  news  of  Paul's  defection  had  greeted  him. 
As  his  eyes  had  fallen  on  the  glaring  red  head-lines,  all 
the  strength  of  will  that  had  supported  his  tired,  aching 
body  through  the  day  and  exercised  uncertain  control 
over  his  mind,  had  suddenly  given  way. 

Now  he  sat  in  his  carriage,  passively  yielding  to  his 
sickness,  his  body  swaying  limply  as  the  vehicle 
bumped  over  rough  places  in  the  streets,  strange,  jum- 
bled fancies  racing  madly  through  his  mind. 

Haggin  and  the  young  man  leaned  forward  anx- 
iously, ready  to  catch  Bob  if  the  jolting  of  the  car- 
riage should  throw  him  off  balance.  When  they  were 
half  way  home,  Haggin  ordered  the  driver  to  stop. 

"Git  out,"  he  commanded  the  young  man,  "an' 
"phone  fer  a  doctor  to  be  at  his  house — quick,  see?" 


326         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

When  the  carriage  resumed  its  journey,  the  old 
saloon-keeper  took  a  seat  beside  Bob  and  awkwardly 
put  a  steadying  arm  around  his  liege's  shoulders.  He 
noticed  that  Bob's  lips  were  moving. 

"What  is  it?"  Haggin  inquired,  bending  over.  "I 
can't  hear  ye,  Bob.  Can't  ye  speak  louder  ?" 

Bob's  eyes  opened  slowly.  He  stared  at  his  com- 
panion unrecognizingly.  He  began  to  mutter.  Haggin 
could  catch  only  snatches  of  it.  Delirium  had  gripped 
Bob. 

"...  It's  the  face  of  the  little  newsie,  I  can't 
get  it  out  of  my  sight.  .  .  .  They'll  beat  me  in 
the  end.  .  .  .  The  miracle  won't  come,  Kathleen. 
.  .  .  Beaten  by  a  woman.  .  .  .  I'll  get  out  of 
your  way,  I  tell  you.  ...  I  have  nothing  to  say. 
.  .  .  You've  said  it  all,  Paul.  .  .  .  This  is  the 
end.  ..." 

Haggin  blasphemed  tearfully  to  the  driver.  "Can't 
you  drive  faster?" 

When  the  carriage  stopped  before  Bob's  house, 
neighbors  at  their  windows  were  treated  to  the  strange 
spectacle  of  a  big,  fat  saloon-keeper — coatless,  hat 
shoved  back,  teeth  clutching  a  cold  cigar — dragging 
the  city's  boss  and  candidate  for  its  mayoralty  out  of 
the  carriage  toward  the  house,  where  at  the  open  door 
two  white-faced  women  waited. 

While  it  was  still  gasping  over  the  news  of  Paul 
Remington's  defection  and  disclosure,  word  went  out 
to  the  city  that  night  that  Bob  McAdoo  had  been  strick- 
en down  by  a  serious  sickness. 


BOOK  THREE 
THE  MOULDER 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   VALLEY    OF   THE    SHADOW 

IN  the  days  that  followed,  while  Bob  McAdoo  lay 
battling  with  death,  his  city  learned  what  a  hold  he 
had  taken  on  its  heart.  Perhaps  in  its  newly  discovered 
love  it  unduly  magnified  his  finer  qualities ;  perhaps  it 
too  generously  overlooked  the  sinister  episodes  in  his 
career — but  that  is  the  habit  of  the  human  heart,  when 
its  sympathy  and  affection  have  been  touched.  A 
pall  of  gloomy  anxiety  hung  over  the  city.  His  death 
had  suddenly  come  to  mean  an  irreparable  loss,  his 
recovery  the  thing  most  to  be  desired. 

The  newspapers  daily  gave  minute  reports  of  the 
progress  of  the  disease.  In  the  street-cars  men  read 
first  the  account  from  his  sick-room.  It  was  the  first 
question  they  asked  each  other  when  they  met  in  street 
and  corridor:  "What  is  the  latest  word  from  Mc- 
Adoo ?"  And  when  the  discouraging  word  was  spoken, 
they  shook  their  heads  gravely.  Prayers  for  his  recov- 
ery were  offered  in  the  churches.  As  his  condition 
grew  worse,  the  newspapers — even  those  owned  by  his 
enemies — hung  out  hourly  bulletins.  Before  these  bul- 
letins gathered  great  solemn  crowds.  But  once  before 
in  the  city's  history  had  such  crowds  assembled  to 
watch  the  struggle  between  life  and  death — a  few  years 
back,  when  the  nation's  president,  struck  down  by  art 

329 


330         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

assassin's  bullet,  was  drifting  into  the  Valley  of  Shad- 
ows. The  Steel  City  remembered  that  former  time 
and  drew  a  parallel.  It  cursed  the  man  whose  cruel 
blow,  as  the  city  believed,  had  struck  down  Bob  Mc- 
Adoo. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  news  offered  no  hope. 
He  had  suffered  two  hemorrhages  in  quick  succession. 
His  temperature  had  fallen  far  below  normal.  His 
heart  was  almost  pulseless.  Life  was  barely  flickering. 
He  could  live  but  a  few  hours,  read  the  doctors'  bulle- 
tins. Before  the  newspaper  offices  the  great  crowds 
waited  silently,  stopping  traffic  in  the  streets,  forget- 
ting hunger,  far  into  the  night — sadly  waiting  for  the 
end.  In  one  of  the  theaters,  at  the  end  of  the  first  act, 
the  latest  bulletin  was  read.  Almost  with  one  accord 
the  audience  rose  and  solemnly  filed  out  into  the  streets 
to  join  the  waiting  crowds. 

Two  men  voiced  the  sentiments  of  all : 

"Wish  I'd  voted  for  him,"  one  said  huskily. 

His  neighbor,  a  stranger,  turned  on  him  fiercely. 
"There's  thousands  more  wishing  that  to-night  Fm 
glad  I  did.  It's  the  finest  thing  I've  ever  done.  He's 
the  best  we've  got  and — "  He  stopped  to  gulp  down 
the  lump  in  his  throat.  He  was  the  earnest  young  man 
who  cherished  ideals  of  civic  duty. 

That  night  a  woman,  who  had  braved  the  dark 
streets  alone  and  on  foot,  tapped  lightly  at  the  door  of 
McAdoo's  home.  The  door  was  opened  and  softly 
closed  behind  her  by  a  maid  who  stood  on  guard.  The 
woman  asked  to  see  Miss  Flinn ;  the  maid  did  not  think 
it  possible,  for  Miss  Flinn  was  in  the  sick-room.  But 
something  in  the  pleading  eyes  of  the  woman  moved 
the  girl,  and  she  showed  the  visitor  into  the  little  par- 


VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW     331 

lor  and  went  up-stairs  with  the  message.  Looking 
across  the  hall  into  the  library,  the  visitor  saw  a  strange 
group — John  Dunmeade,  governor  of  the  state,  Patrick 
Flinn,  ex-policeman,  and  Tom  Haggin,  ex-pugilist  and 
saloon-keeper — sitting  silent  together  in  a  common 
grief. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  skirts  along  the  hall  and  then 
not  Kathleen  but  Mrs.  Dunmeade  entered  the  parlor. 
She  looked  at  the  visitor  in  amazement. 

"Eleanor,  dear !" 

"Katherine!" 

And  the  two  women  were  in  each  other's  arms. 

"Is  he — ?"  Eleanor  began.  She  could  not  complete 
the  question. 

"The  doctors  say  so,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  answered 
quietly. 

Eleanor  disengaged  herself  from  the  embrace. 

"Can  I  see  Kathleen  Flinn  a  minute?" 

Mrs.  Dunmeade  shook  her  head.  "I  fear  not,  Elea- 
nor. She  is  with  him.  And  they  are  expecting  any 
minute — " 

"Ah !  don't  say  that ! — But,  please,  Katherine,  won't 
you  see?"  Eleanor  pleaded.  "I  must  speak  to  her.  I 
won't  take  but  a  moment.  I  must  speak  to  her  before 
he — before  he — "  She  stopped  again. 

"I'll  ask  her."   And  Mrs.  Dunmeade  went  up-stairs. 

A  few  minutes  later  Kathleen  Flinn  entered — a  new 
Kathleen,  whose  face  was  hard  and  stern.  She  looked 
at  Eleanor  coldly. 

Before  Kathleen's  contempt,  Eleanor's  eyes  quailed. 
But  quickly  she  raised  them  again. 

"Miss  Flinn,"  she  said,  speaking  haltingly.  "I  won't 
keep  you  long.  I  came — it's  about  that  affidavit.  I 


332         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

want  to  say  it  was  all  my  fault.  It  was  my  brother's 
scheme — I  didn't  know  about  it  until  it  was  too  late. 
But  it  would  never  have  been  done,  if  I  hadn't  first 
tempted  Paul  to  leave — him.  And  I  wanted — to  say 
this — I  can't  to  him,  but  you're  nearest  to  him.  And  I 
— can't  you  see  ? — I  had  to  make  my  acknowledgment 
before — "  She  stopped,  looking  pleadingly  at  Kath- 
leen. 

"We  knew  it,"  Kathleen  said,  still  coldly,  cruelly 
putting  a  slight  emphasis  on  the  "we." 

Eleanor  began  again,  miserably.  "I  didn't  know 
what  my  brother  was  scheming.  And  I  did  it  thought- 
lessly— though  that's  no  excuse — it  was  utterly  con- 
temptible. When  I  found  out — Saturday  night  I  tried 
to  warn  Mr. — him — over  the  telephone — but  he 
wouldn't  listen.  And  Monday  I  tried  to  dissuade  Paul 
from  doing  it — but  it  was  too  late. — I  was  so  helpless 
— so  helpless.  But  that  doesn't  excuse  me,  either.  I 
don't  expect  you  to  forgive  me — he  couldn't.  I  can't 
forgive  myself.  But  I  had  to  tell  you  that  I  know  what 
I  did — and  that  all  my  life  I  shall  have  my  punishment. 
It — it's  all  I  can  do.  Thank  you  for  listening  to  me. 
And  don't  let  me  keep  you  from  him." 

Kathleen's  face  was  not  cold  now.  The  thing  in 
Eleanor's  eyes  that  had  moved  the  servant  touched 
Kathleen,  too.  And  it  was  not  a  time  to  cherish  anger 
or — as  Eleanor  had  proved — woman's  pride.  She  took 
a  step  forward  and  looked  closely  into  the  younger 
woman's  eyes. 

"You — you  must  care  something  for — "  she  pointed 
upward — "for  him — or  you  couldn't  have  come." 

A  sob  was  the  only  answer. 

"You  poor  girl !"  she  murmured,  and  drew  Eleanor 


VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW     333 

to  her.  And  on  Kathleen's  shoulder  the  young  woman 
wept  softly. 

Soon  Kathleen  said,  "Would  you  like  to  see  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

Together  they  went  up-stairs  to  the  room  where  Bob 
McAdoo  faced  death.  Eleanor  knew  that  she  would 
remember  the  scene  always — for  her  punishment,  she 
thought.  In  a  corner  sat  Norah  Flinn,  her  hands  prim- 
ly folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  downcast.  Beside  her, 
one  hand  resting  gently  on  the  old  woman's  shoulder, 
stood  Mrs.  Dunmeade.  The  uniformed  nurse,  a  strong, 
capable-looking  woman,  was  standing  beside  a  small 
table,  noiselessly  arranging  bottles  and  glasses ;  among 
the  medical  paraphernalia  stood  a  vase  of  fresh  cut 
flowers.  Two  doctors,  wearing  their  cold,  professional 
air,  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  A  third  sat  by  the 
bedside,  holding  the  wrist  of  the  sick  man;  occasion- 
ally he  leaned  over  to  place  his  stethoscope  above  the 
patient's  heart 

A  folded  newspaper  had  been  stuck  in  the  chandelier 
to  shade  the  face  of  the  patient.  The  shadow  accentu- 
ated the  waxen  pallor  of  his  face.  His  head  was 
shaven,  a  rough  beard  had  grown  out,  the  pinched  fea- 
tures were  big  and  bony  and  ugly.  The  sheet  was 
drawn  up  to  his  chin,  leaving  visible  only  the  head 
and  the  arm  wThose  wrist  the  doctor  held.  He  might 
have  been  already  dead,  so  motionless  was  he. 

Eleanor  gave  him  one  long  look.  She  could  not  re- 
press a  sob.  The  doctor  at  the  bedside  looked  up  with 
a  frown.  Then  she  turned  away  and  crept  blindly  from 
the  room.  Kathleen  compassionately  followed  her,  and 
led  her  into  a  room  across  the  hall.  Eleanor  sank  into 
a  chair  and  sobbed  unrestrainedly. 


334         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"It's  horrible !"  she  moaned.   "He  was  so  strong." 

"My  poor  girl !"  Kathleen  murmured  soothingly. 

Eleanor  looked  up  wanly.  "Why  are  you  so  kind  to 
me?  When  I  have  deserved  so  little?" 

"Because,"  Kathleen  answered  softly,  "I  think  I 
understand.  You  condemn  yourself  too  harshly — as  I 
did.  Forgive  me." 

Then  she  added.  "Do  you  care  to  wait  here?  You 
are  welcome." 

"If  I  may." 

And  Kathleen  left  her  alone. 

Eleanor  lay  back  in  her  chair;  subconsciously  she 
took  in  the  details  of  this  room,  too :  the  simple  furni- 
ture, the  walls  bare  of  all  ornament  save  books — rows 
and  rows  of  books,  covering  the  walls  half  way  to  the 
ceiling — the  businesslike  desk  with  its  neat,  orderly 
piles  of  papers  and  books,  its  telephone — the  room  of  a 
man  who  worked.  Mechanically  fingering  a  pile  of  un- 
opened letters  lying  on  the  desk,  beside  which  she  sat, 
she  caught  the  address  of  the  one  on  top,  "Robert  Mc- 
Adoo."  It  was  his  room!  .  .  .  Here  the  big, 
lonely  man,  shut  off  from  his  fellows,  had  in  antici- 
pation fought  out  the  battle  whose  issue  so  vitally  con- 
cerned his  fellows.  Here,  too,  he  must  have  fought 
those  bitter  inner  battles  which  all  strong  men  have  to 
face.  Here,  perhaps,  with  hatred  and  contempt,  he 
had  thought  of  her.  Here — she  saw  the  telephone — 
he  had  beaten  down  his  pride  and  humbled  himself 
before  her  whose  idle,  selfish  vanity  had  brought  such 
sorrow  to  him.  .  .  .  And  now  he  must  die. 

"Ah!  no!"  her  heart  protested.  "It  can't  be  true. 
He  was  so  strong.  He  will  beat  back  death,  as  he  has 
beaten  all  his  enemies.  He  will  not  die !" 


VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW     335 

And  as  the  night  wore  away  and  he  still  lingered, 
her  hope  became  faith. 

And  the  faith  was  justified.  The  Force  had  further 
use  for  Robert  McAdoo. 

Toward  morning  his  heart  action  became  perceptibly 
stronger  and  his  temperature  began  to  rise  gradually. 
Two  of  the  doctors  left,  first  shaking  hands  with  all  in 
the  room  and  congratulating  them  with  an  air  that  said, 
"Congratulate  us!"  The  morning  newspapers  carried 
the  good  news  out  to  the  city. 

It  was  Kathleen  who  went  in  to  tell  Eleanor,  saying 
simply, 

"He  will  live." 

And  Eleanor  smiled.    "I  have  known  it." 

"You  put  us  to  shame,"  Kathleen  said.  "We  have 
had  too  little  faith.  Won't  you  lie  down  and  get  some 
rest  ?  You  are  tired." 

Eleanor  pointed  to  the  window.  "No,  it  is  morning 
now  and  I  can  go  home.  You  should  rest,  yourself. 
And,"  she  added  simply,  "I  can  never  forget  your  gen- 
erosity to  me." 

Kathleen  pressed  her  hand  gently.  "I  owed  it  to 
you  for  having  misjudged  you — yes,  I  did.  But  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  one  thing.  Will  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"When  he  has  recovered,  I  want  you  to  come  to  him 
and  tell  him  what  you  told  me." 

Eleanor  did  not  answer  at  once.  When  she  did,  her 
voice  was  quiet. 

"Yes.  But,"  she  added  in  a  frightened  tone,  "please 
never  tell  him  that  I  was  here  to-night."  The  crisis 
past,  the  woman  in  her  reasserted  itself. 

"I  understand — dear." 


336         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

Walking  wearily  homeward  in  the  gray  morning, 
Eleanor  thought : 

"I  will  make  my  acknowledgment  to  him — and  then 
I  will  go  away — for  ever." 

And  "for  ever"  seemed  a  long,  dreary  time,  indeed! 

One  day,  when  his  strength  was  beginning  to  creep 
back  into  his  body,  Kathleen  came  to  his  bedside. 

"You  haven't  asked  how  the  election  came  out,"  she 
said. 

He  smiled  wearily.  "I'd  forgotten.  I  lost,  didn't  I  ?" 

"Lost!"  Kathleen  laughed  proudly.  "No,  indeed! 
You  won — and  by  nearly  ten  thousand.  Aren't  they 
the  dear,  good  people  ?" 

And  it  was  true.  Sanger  had  miscalculated.  Paul's 
declaration  had  been  received  by  many  with  the  skepti- 
cism with  which  eleventh-hour  charges  generally  are 
received.  Others  had  seen  only  the  treachery  in  Paul's 
deed,  and  had  become  even  more  set  in  their  determina- 
tion to  vote  for  McAdoo.  Thousands  had  defiantly  said 
that  they  did  not  care,  and  had  been  ready  to  find  ex- 
cuses for  the  bribing  of  the  delegates.  And  the  news 
of  his  collapse  and  his  critical  condition,  which  Hag- 
gin  had  taken  care  to  disseminate  through  the  city 
early  on  the  morning  of  election  day,  had  been  an  un- 
answerable appeal  to  sympathy. 

But  Bob  heard  the  news  apathetically.  For  a  long 
time  he  lay  with  closed  eyes,  making  no  comment. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  he  whispered  list- 
lessly : 

"I  don't  seem  to  care.  I  almost  wish  I  had  lost. 
Then  I  shouldn't  have  to  go  on  with  the  fighting.  I 
wonder  why  they  did  it  ?" 


VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW     337 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"What  they  charged  was  true.  The  delegates  were 
bribed.  They  ought  to  have  repudiated  me." 

"Ah!"  Kathleen  answered  proudly,  "but  they  love 
you!" 

He  shook  his  head  wearily.  "It  was  because  they 
didn't  realize."  He  turned  his  face  away,  and  Kath- 
leen, remembering  the  doctor's  orders  not  to  let  him 
talk  much,  said  no  more. 

Another  day — it  was  the  first  time  he  was  allowed  to 
sit  up  in  bed — when  the  nurse  had  gone  out  of  the 
room  for  a  few  minutes,  he  began  the  conversation 
himself. 

"Kathleen — "  he  began  abruptly,  then  stopped. 

"Yes?" 

"I  was  delirious,  wasn't  I?" 

"You  were." 

"I— I  talked  a  good  deal?" 

"Almost  continuously." 

"And  you  learned — everything?" 

"Many  things." 

"About— about  Mrs.  Gilbert?" 

"Yes." 

He  had  been  looking  steadily  into  space.  Now  he 
turned  to  meet  her  gaze. 

"Even  what  a  cowardly  brute  I  was  to  her  at  the 
Dunmeades'?"  A  faint  flush  came  to  his  sunken 
cheeks. 

"Yes,  even  that/'  she  answered  steadily. 

His  next  question  came  after  a  long  pause. 

"A  woman  couldn't  forgive  that,  could  she,  Kath- 
leen?" 

"Not  many  women,  I  think." 


338         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

His  voice  became  husky.  "I've  been  thinking  of 
that  a  good  deal.  I — I'd  like  to  make  that  up  to  her,  if 
I  could,  Kathleen." 

"You  may  have  the  chance  some  day."  Long  after- 
ward, thinking  over  this  scene,  he  seemed  to  remember 
that  her  voice  was  very  tired;  he  supposed  it  was  be- 
cause the  strain  of  the  watching  had  been  too  much  for 
her. 

And  he  thought  of  many  things  besides  his  relation 
to  Eleanor  Gilbert. 

All  his  life  long  Bob  had  gone  driving  steadily  ahead 
with  little  time  for  self-study.  Now  he  welcomed  the 
weeks  of  inaction  following  his  fever.  He  needed  the 
time  to  become  acquainted  with  himself  and  readjust 
his  life.  It  was  like  meeting  and  learning  to  know  a 
complete  stranger. 

Haggin  was  a  daily  visitor ;  and  often  for  hours  he 
and  Bob  and  Kathleen  sat  chatting  of  the  future — al- 
ways of  the  future.  One  day  Haggin  told  Bob  how 
the  people  of  their  city  had  received  the  news  of  his 
illness.  Bob  said  nothing  then.  But  long  after  Hag- 
gin  had  gone,  he  sat  thoughtfully  looking  out  of  his 
window  pondering  what  the  saloon-keeper  had  told 
him.  Kathleen,  who  had  remained  in  the  room,  bent 
silently  over  her  sewing;  she  guessed  a  little  of  what 
was  passing  through  his  mind. 

He  had  never  been  of  those  politicians  who  privately 
affect  to  hold  in  contempt  the  people  upon  whom  they 
play.  And  when  Haggin,  in  his  rough  way,  told  him 
of  the  sorrow  they  had  shown  for  his  sickness,  Bob  felt 
his  heart  suddenly  expand  in  a  deep,  strong  affection 
for  them.  They  were  his  people ! — his,  not  because  his 


VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW     339 

machine  had  whipped  them  into  submission,  but  be- 
cause he,  though  unworthy,  lived  in  their  hearts. 

He  knew  his  city.  He  knew  that  within  its  limits 
were  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men  and  women  who 
toiled  ceaselessly,  unquestioningly,  that  they  might 
wring  out  a  bare  existence  for  themselves  and  their 
children,  happy  if  at  the  end  they  might  die  in  their 
own  beds  and  see  their  sons  and  daughters  self-de- 
pendent ;  leaving  to  the  next  generation  the  heritage  of 
the  same  struggle  and  the  same  hope.  And  he  knew 
that  over  the  land  were  a  hundred  million  others  like 
those  of  his  city — all  struggling  always,  producing  al- 
ways, giving  to  humanity  the  equivalent  for  the  right 
and  means  to  live,  giving  more  than  the  equivalent, 
giving  more  and  better  than  they  received  from  the 
world.  A  brave,  patient,  hard-working,  faithful,  de- 
serving people  these — pity  the  man  who  could  not  feel 
a  thrill  of  pride  that  he  was  one  of  them!  Bob  sud- 
denly knew  that  love  of  one's  people  is  a  distinct,  defi- 
nite, overmastering  emotion  which  exalts  a  man  and 
dwarfs  his  petty  self. 

Happy  they  were  in  the  main,  these  his  people,  with 
the  happiness  that  tired  bodies  and  peaceful  con- 
sciences bring.  But  he  knew  that  tfiere  was  another 
side  to  the  picture,  a  side  upon  which  he  had  looked  so 
often  and  so  dispassionately  that  every  tragic  detail 
was  ineffaceably  printed  upon  his  mind  and  the  mean- 
ing of  every  detail  fully  realized.  He  knew  that  in  the 
unsightly,  foul-smelling  tenement  districts  of  his  city 
dwrelt  tens  of  thousands  of  dull-eyed,  hard-faced  men 
and  women — whole  families  living,  sleeping  and  eat- 
ing— when  they  could — in  squalid  rooms  where  dis- 
ease was  bred  and  death  lurked  and  suffering  abode 


340         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

always.  He  knew  of  other  thousands,  sturdy,  brave 
men  who  worked  continuously  and  thought  of  death 
with  anguish,  knowing  that  their  taking  away  meant 
starvation  to  wives  and  babes ;  for  to  those  who  labor 
the  hardest  our  "prosperity"  brings  no  surplus.  He 
knew  of  the  great  "common"  people  of  the  land, 
whose  lives  are  being  worn  out  in  the  effort  to  pro- 
duce far  more  than  they  consume,  at  the  end  having 
nothing  but  the  necessity  for  increased,  harder  effort; 
looking  about  them  in  dazed  wonder  and  plaintively 
demanding,  "Why  is  it  that  we  can  not  rest?  Why 
have  we  nothing?  Whither  has  it  gone — that  which 
we  have  created  ?" 

Whither  had  it  gone?  He  knew  the  answer.  It 
gloomed  solemnly  down  at  him  from  million-dollar  pal- 
aces, honked  hoarsely  through  the  streets  from  costly 
imported  automobiles,  flashed  brilliantly  from  the  be- 
jeweled  fingers  of  wife  and  courtezan,  kept  gleaming 
necks  and  shoulders  warm  in  the  face  of  shivering 
poverty,  gurgled  in  goblets  of  precious  vintages,  raced 
panting  under  the  wire.  Above  all,  he  read  the  answer 
in  the  terrific  power  of  the  modern  feudal  system — con- 
centrated wealth — whose  machinery  was  slowly 
crunching,  crunching,  crunching  his  people  into  help- 
less subjection.  From  a  race  of  men  who  were  pro- 
ducers had  sprung  a  generation  of  men  whom  the 
world  called  "financiers" — who  gave  no  equivalent  to 
humanity  for  what  they  wrung  out  of  humanity.  They 
reared  magnificent  memorial  churches,  did  these 
"financiers,"  endowed  universities,  erected  libraries, 
founded  scientific  institutions — bearing  their  own 
names  in  high,  ornate  letters  that  posterity  might  read 
and  hold  the  donors  in  loving  remembrance ;  they  gave 


VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW    341 

to  charity  as  did  the  Pharisee,  conspicuously,  with  a 
fanfare  of  trumpets,  amid  the  plaudits  of  a  hired  cho- 
rus, and  exchanged  among  themselves  such  greetings : 
"My  brother  in  the  great  work  of  distributing  surplus 
wealth,  I  clasp  your  hand.  We  are  doing  the  work  of 
God."  But  the  surplus  which  they  distributed  was 
wealth  that  others  had  created  and  which  the  pos- 
sessors had  not  earned. 

How  had  such  things  come  to  pass  ?  Ah !  that  ques- 
tion he  could  answer,  since  he  himself  had  once  been 
a  part  of  the  system.  He  knew,  far  better  than  did  his 
patient,  blinded  people,  the  enormous  sums  of  money 
needed  to  fire  the  engines  that  run  the  nation's  political 
machinery,  and  whence  that  corruption  fund  came — 
from  those  whom  our  "prosperity"  crowned.  Had 
Bob  not  known  the  answer  from  specific  instances,  he 
could  have  read  it  in  the  awful  rapidity  with  which  the 
wealth  created  by  this  nation  and  the  power  generated 
by  that  wealth,  were  passing  into  the  control  of  that 
small  group  of  modern  financiers — the  "money  kings." 

A  nation,  a  great  people,  was  being  bought — was 
being  sold  into  slavery ! 

And  all  this  was  wrong,  in  denial  of  the  ideals  of  the 
Commonwealth,  in  disobedience  of  the  natural  law 
which  says,  "Let  a  man's  reward  be  measured  by  his 
value  to  humanity."  He  would  do  nothing  to  disturb 
the  just  balance  of  the  state;  to  his  executive  brain  or- 
ganization and  equilibrium  were  prime  essentials.  But 
there  was — there  must  be ! — some  means  by  which  the 
injustice  could  be  corrected,  the  world's  happiness  and 
the  reward  of  effort  more  equitably  distributed.  He 
could  not  then  propound  the  remedy.  But  one  thing 
he  knew — the  remedy,  when  found,  could  never  be  ar> 


342         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

plied  so  long  as  the  machinery  of  government  remained 
in  the  power  of  those  against  whom  the  remedy  was  to 
apply. 

"What  was  to  be  his  part  ?  That  question  had  been 
answered  when  Haggin  told  him  of  his  city's  sorrow- 
ing in  his  suffering.  These  people — his  people! — 
whom  he  had  used  as  a  lever  to  lift  him  to  power  that 
he  might  the  more  arrogantly  worship  his  petty  self- 
god — had  ignored  the  shameful  truth  about  him,  had 
stood  loyally,  trustingly  by  him,  had  bared  their  heads 
in  sorrow  when  it  seemed  that  he  must  die.  He  was 
humbled  to  the  dust.  And  then,  even  in  his  humility, 
he  was  raised  again  by  the  inspiration  that  was  never 
to  forsake  him. 

"I  have  been  a  failure,"  thought  this  man  whose 
brilliant  success  a  nation  was  considering  wonderingly, 
"since  I  have  missed  the  real  meaning  of  life.  These 
are  my  people,  they  need  me.  Let  me  serve !" 

Unconsciously  he  spoke  the  last  words  aloud. 

"Let  me  serve !"  Kathleen  repeated  slowly. 

It  was  easy  to  lay  one's  heart  bare  to  Kathleen ! 

"Kathleen!"  And  his  voice  was  husky,  as  it  had 
been  when  he  had  spoken  the  same  words  of  a  woman 
whom  he  had  hurt.  "Kathleen,  I've  many  things  to 
make  up  to  many  people.  And  I  want  to  do  it.  I 
have  misused  myself.  I  see  it  all  now — what  I've  re- 
fused to  see  all  my  life.  Kathleen,  something  has 
gone  out  of  me." 

"You  mean,"  she  said  gently,  "that  something  has 
come  into  your  heart — the  greatest  of  all  things." 

He  smiled  at  her.  It  seemed  to  Kathleen  that  his 
thin,  ugly  face,  alight  with  his  new  inspiration,  was 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  world. 


VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW     343 

"And  you  will  be  happy,  Bob,  as  you  have  never 
been."  There  was  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

"Kathleen,"  he  answered  gravely,  "it  was  once  my 
boast  that  I  thought  nothing  of  happiness.  I'm  not 
thinking  of  happiness  now." 

He  lost  himself  once  more  in  his  vision,  forgetting 
her. 

She  left  him  and  went  to  her  room  to  stifle,  if  she 
could,  the  vain  hunger  that  had  never  died  out  of  her 
heart. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FORCE — WHICH  IS  LOVE 

DURING  the  days  of  Bob's  illness  Eleanor  had 
wandered  restlessly  through  the  big  Sanger  house 
in  passionate  remorse  and  self-hate.  During  the  time 
of  his  convalescence  the  restless  wandering  continued 
in  mingled  thanksgiving  and  humility.  When  the 
turning  point  of  his  fever  had  been  safely  passed,  the 
governor  returned  to  the  capital.  But  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade  stayed  on,  most  of  the  time  with  Eleanor.  Mrs. 
Dunmeade's  heart  ached  for  her  cousin,  but  she  knew 
not  how  to  comfort  her.  Sanger,  too,  saw  the  change 
he  had  remarked  in  Eleanor  become  daily  more  pro- 
nounced; and  it  puzzled  him.  Not  until  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade  was  preparing  to  return  home  was  the  amazing 
reason  discovered  to  him. 

It  was  the  day  when  the  doctors  finally  pronounced 
Bob  out  of  danger.  Mrs.  Dunmeade  had  spent  the 
afternoon  with  the  Flinns  and  returned  early  in  the 
evening  to  find  Eleanor  and  her  brother  alone  in  the 
firelit  library.  Eleanor  turned  to  her  with  an  inquiring 
glance. 

"He  is  much  better,"  Mrs.  Dunmeade  answered  the 
glance.  "The  doctors  say  that  unless  a  relapse  occurs 
— and  careful  nursing  will  prevent  that — it  is  only  a 
matter  of  regaining  his  strength." 

344 


THE  FORCE  WHICH  IS  LOVE    345 

Eleanor  made  no  answer.  But  Sanger  saw  a  strange 
light — to  him,  a  revelation — come  into  her  face.  He 
gave  no  hint  of  the  light  dawning  upon  him,  but 
chatted  impersonally  for  a  few  minutes.  When  he 
came  to  a  period,  Eleanor  quietly  arose  and  left  the 
room,  followed  by  Sanger  s  incredulous  eyes. 

"Absurd!   Incredible!"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

Then  he  turned  swiftly,  angrily,  on  Mrs.  Dunmeade. 
"Is  this  some  of  your  work?" 

She  answered  quietly.  "It  is  the  work  of  something 
which  you,  Henry  Sanger,  or  I  can  neither  help  nor 
impede." 

"Ah!  I  remember,  your  husband  has  a  theory,"  he 
sneered. 

"John  recognizes  a  fundamental  principle  of  exist- 
ence. Some  day  you,  I  think,  will  recognize  it  as  a 
force  you  can't  resist." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  skeptically.  "You  and 
I  always  did  disagree,  Katherine." 

"That's  the  weakness  of  you  rich  men.  You  are 
anachronistic.  You  think  in  terms  of  several  cen- 
turies ago.  You  won't  see  that  the  principle  of  social 
responsibility  has  come  into  its  own — until  too  late  to 
save  yourselves." 

"You  would  be  impressive  on  the  stump,  Kath- 
erine." Sanger  was  his  impassive  self  again.  "But 
how  am  I  concerned  with  that  principle?" 

"In  this — the  people  that  recognize  it  won't  long 
tolerate  your  antequated  methods  and  philosophy. 
And  in  this — even  your  triumph  wouldn't  bring  you 
happiness  or  content ;  selfish  victory  never  does,  Henry. 
You  can  trample  underfoot  the  happiness  of  a  great 
people  without  a  regret.  You  can  destroy  the  work  of 


346         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

good  men — and  that  wouldn't  count  with  you,  either. 
But  even  you,  Henry  Sanger,  have  one  love.  And 
you  know  now  that  every  step  you  take  is  on  Eleanor's 
heart." 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.     He  frowned  irritably. 

"I  have  a  responsibility,"  he  said  at  last,  dispassion- 
ately, "to  my  wealth  and  to  my  class.  Incidentally  I 
have  an  ambition.  If  between  them  Eleanor  must  be 
hurt — I'm  sorry.  If  you  thought  to  spike  one  of  the 
enemy's  guns,  you  have  failed.  Katherine." 

"You  can  hardly  expect  ever  to  be  shown  mercy." 

"I'm  not  asking  mercy,"  he  replied  complacently. 
"I  don't  need  it.  I  never  shall.  What  you  visionaries 
close  your  eyes  to  is  that  the  world  is  ruled  by  its  neces- 
sities, by  its  pocket-book.  You're  on  the  crest  of  the 
wave  now — but  our  time  is  coming.  We  don't  ask 
mercy,  because  we  don't  intend  to  show  mercy." 

"Poor  Eleanor!" 

"I'm  not  responsible  for  that,"  he  answered  sharply, 
rising.  "It's  McAdoo's  ambition  and  yours — or  mine. 
It  may  take  ten  years  or  twenty,  but  in  the  end  it  will 
be  mine — neither  you  nor  your  husband  nor  McAdoo 
— nor  Eleanor — shall  stand  in  the  way.  We  haven't 
taken  you  reformers  seriously,  we  men  of  wealth. 
But  we  haven't  developed  this  nation's  industries  to 
let  a  few  dreamers  take  them  from  us.  Now,"  his 
eyes  gleamed,  "we  accept  your  challenge.  It  means 
war,  Katherine.  And  your  friend  McAdoo  shall  be 
the  first  to  go  under.  Tell  him  that."  He  left  her 
abruptly. 

And  yet,  that  evening  at  dinner,  Mrs.  Dunmeade 
thought  she  detected  in  his  manner  an  unwonted  gen- 
tleness toward  Eleanor. 


THE  FORCE  WHICH  IS  LOVE    347 

One  evening — Mrs.  Dunmeade  had  returned  to  her 
home  and  Bob's  convalescence  was  progressing  rapidly 
— Eleanor  and  her  brother  were  alone  at  dinner.  At 
its  end  he  accompanied  her  to  the  library. 

"Henry,"  she  asked  abruptly,  "do  you  know  where 
Paul  Remington  is?" 

"I  do  not,"  he  returned  calmly.  "He  visited  my 
office  twice  the  day  before  the  election.  On  his  second 
visit  we  had  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to  what  should 
be  done  with  a  certain  document.  I  maintained  my 
position.  He  seemed  much  disturbed  by  that  fact.  I 
haven't  heard  of  him  since." 

"Then  he  had  the  decency  to  be  ashamed,  at  least.'* 

He  made  no  answer,  although  she  fancied  she  saw 
a  slight  flush  rise  to  his  face;  but  it  might  have  been 
the  firelight..  She  looked  at  him  steadily  a  moment. 
Then  she  dropped  her  eyes  to  the  floor,  thoughtfully. 
After  a  short  silence,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  once 
more. 

"There  is  one  thing  I'd  like  you  to  do,  if  you  will." 

"You  have  but  to  name  it." 

"Under  Uncle  Henry's  will,  I  believe,  he  left  me 
this  house  and  the  annuity?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  give  me  the  value  of  the  annuity  and 
buy  the  house  from  me?" 

"It  shall  be  done  to-morrow,"  he  answered  abruptly. 
"May  I  ask  what  your  plans  are  ?" 

"They  aren't  settled  yet,  except  that  I  am  going 
away  in  a  few  days." 

"When  do  you  expect  to  return  ?" 

"Never." 

"Ah!    Then  I  am  to  understand  that,  in  the  par- 


348         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

lance  of  the  stage,  I  am  cast  off  ?  You  doubtless  class 
me  as  the  villain  in  the  recent  episode  ?" 

She  sighed  wearily.  "I  blame  you  no  more  than 
myself — not  so  much.  I'm  not  very  proud  of  myself, 
Henry." 

"I  suppose  most  people  would  regard  it  a  queer  evi- 
dence of  affection,  but — I  care  too  much  for  you  to 
urge  you  to  stay,  Eleanor." 

"You  refuse  to  take  me  seriously?" 

'Tin  not  joking,"  he  said  quietly,  and  the  Sanger 
manner  for  once  was  absent.  "You're  the  only  person 
I  ever  cared  for,  Eleanor." 

He  was  manifestly  telling  the  truth.  Her  astonish- 
ment was  genuine  and  unconcealed.  "I  can't  believe 
it.  You  cared  for  me — and  yet  you  could — " 

"Yes,"  he  interrupted,  still  quietly.  "And  would 
do  it  again.  My  emotions  are  under  perfect  control." 

She  rose  impulsively  and  took  a  step  toward  him, 
her  lips  parted  as  if  to  speak.  But  his  uplifted  hand 
stayed  her. 

"Under  perfect  control,"  he  repeated  sharply.  "I 
beg  that  you  make  no  demonstration.  I  understand 
the  situation  better  than  I  did.  Your  feeling  over  that 
Remington  matter  is  quite  justified — from  your  point 
of  view.  Therefore  I  am  ready  to  assist  you,  as  far 
as  you  will  allow  me,  in  the  casting-off  process.  You 
have  gone  over  to  the  enemy;  rather,  you  never  were 
on  my  side,  really.  Our  points  of  view  differ  radically. 
I  think  you  are  very  wise.  It  will  save  us  both  some 
— discomfort. 

"That  Remington  affair,"  he  continued,  rising, 
"was  very  amateurish  and,  in  so  far  as  you  were  con- 
cerned, in  poor  taste — " 


349 

"I  was  concerned  in  it  all,  Henry." 

"For  that,  accept  my  profound  apologies.  And  now 
— don't  you  think  we'd  better  end  this  little  scene. 
My  secretary  will  bring  you  the  necessary  papers  to- 
morrow for  your  signature." 

She  made  no  answer.  He  left  her  alone.  Her 
loneliness  seemed  to  her  immeasurable,  complete. 

The  next  day,  as  Sanger  had  promised,  his  secretary 
presented  to  her  the  papers  necessary  for  the  convey- 
ance of  the  house  and  the  release  of  the  annuity ;  also, 
there  was  placed  in  her  hands  a  certified  check  for  a 
generous  sum. 

At  last — so  proclaimed  the  daily  reports  from  the 
convalescent's  room — the  time  came  when  she  could 
fulfil  her  promise  to  Kathleen.  For  a  week  longer 
Eleanor  postponed  the  dreaded  visit.  It  was  no  easy 
task  Kathleen  had  set  for  her;  Eleanor  could  avow 
her  love  to  Paul,  to  Kathleen,  to  Mrs.  Dunmeade,  but 
the  fear  lest  she  betray  her  heart  to  Bob  stirred  up 
agonies  of  pride.  But  one  day  she  summoned  her 
resolution  and  went  bravely  forth  to  abase  herself 
before  the  man  who,  she  believed,  must  hate  her  bit- 
terly. She  had  ordered  the  automobile,  but  on  reach- 
ing the  door,  changed  her  mind  and  walked  to  Bob 
McAdoo's  home,  as  she  had  done  the  night  when  all 
supposed  that  he  must  die.  More  than  once  her  heart 
failed  her,  crying  out,  "I  can't !" — to  be  answered  with, 
"You  must!" 

Bob  and  Kathleen  were  sitting  by  the  window  of  his 
library.  It  had  become  her  daily  custom,  when  school 
was  over,  to  hasten  home  for  an  hour's  chat  with  him 
before  dinner.  But  they  were  not  talking  now.  He 
was  staring  absently  into  space,  a  habit  that  had  fixed 


350         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

itself  upon  him  since  his  illness.  But  not  thinking  :  f 
her,  she  knew ;  so  easily  could  he  forget  her ! 

Suddenly  Kathleen,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
started.  Quietly  she  rose  and  left  the  room.  At  the 
door  she  stopped  -to  look  back ;  he  had  taken  no  account 
even  of  her  departure. 

The  maid,  instructed  by  Kathleen,  led  Eleanor  up- 
stairs and  left  her  at  the  open  door  of  Bob's  room. 

And  as  she  stood  on  the  threshold,  the  need  for  her 
courage  passed  away.  Strangely  enough,  this  meet- 
ing to  which  she  had  looked  forward  with  such  painful 
uncertaintx,  no  longer  seemed  unnatural  or  difficult. 
Fear  of  him  and  of  his  judgment  fell  from  her.  For 
one  thrilling  instant  she  looked  at  him,  the  mask  of 
expression  drawn  aside,  all  her  heart  in  her  eyes. 

He  did  not  observe  her  entrance  at  once.  He  was 
reclining  in  his  big  chair  by  the  window,  a  heavy  shawl 
thrown  loosely  around  his  shoulders.  The  ravages 
of  his  illness  were  plainly  apparent.  The  big  hands, 
white  and  bony,  drooped  inertly  from  the  chair's  arms. 
His  close-cropped  head  rested  passively  on  a  pillow. 
His  position  by  the  window  threw  the  angular,  un- 
comely profile  into  sharp  relief,  marking  the  hollows 
and  pallor  of  his  face.  In  his  eyes  was  the  tired,  wist- 
ful expression  peculiar  to  fever  convalescents.  She 
felt  in  them  still  another  quality,  a  deep  sadness  bred 
of  no  mere  physical  weakness. 

He  felt  her  gaze.  His  head  turned  slowly  to  face 
her.  He  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  without  speaking. 
His  hand  brushed  across  his  forehead  in  a  troubled 
gesture,  as  one  would  brush  aside  a  dream  that  lingers 
overlong.  She  strove  to  give  her  words  a  conven- 
tional tone. 


351 

"I'm  glad  you  are  recovering  so  rapidly,  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo." 

His  face  lighted  up  in  an  incredulous  eagerness. 

"Are  you — real?  I  was  just  thinking  of  you.  And 
sometimes  my  fancies  get  the  better  of  me  nowadays." 

He  got  to  his  feet  uncertainly.  She  saw  the  effort 
it  cost  him  in  his  weakness.  Slowly  she  crossed  the 
room  to  his  side.  He  held  out  his  hand  hesitatingly. 
She  put  her  gloved  hand  in  his;  he  caught  it  in  a 
strong  clasp. 

"You  mustn't  stand,"  she  said  anxiously.  "You 
aren't  strong  yet." 

He  sank  back  into  his  chair.  As  he  did  so,  the 
shawl  fell  from  his  shoulders.  Tremblingly  he  stooped 
to  recover  it.  But  she  was  swifter  than  he.  She 
threw  it  around  him  again.  As  she  drew  her  arm 
away,  it  brushed  against  him.  For  the  first  time  their 
eyes  looked  away. 

She  took  the  chair  where  Kathleen  had  been.  For 
a  few  minutes  there  was  an  awkward  silence.  She 
gazed  steadily  out  of  the  window,  lest  her  eyes  out- 
run her  tongue  in  explaining  her  coming.  He  could 
not  kr.ow  that  in  his  weakness  and  new-found  humility 
his  appeal  was  stronger  to  her  than  in  his  old  superb, 
arrogant  strength.  It  was  he  who  at  last  broke  the 
silence.  The  words  fell  haltingly,  uncertainly. 

"I  can't  quite  realize  it.  Often  I  have  thought  of 
you  as  being  here — there  are  so  many  things  I  wanted 
to  say  to  you.  Now — seeing  you  there — in  that 
chair—" 

She  turned  to  him  eagerly,  her  eyes  pleading  with 
him  not  to  misunderstand.  "I  had  to  come — to  ac- 
knowledge my  fault.*' 


352         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Your  fault?     But—" 

"Yes.  My  shameful  fault !  Don't  you  see,  I  owed 
it  to  myself  to  come." 

With  an  effort  he  seemed  to  bring  himself  to  the 
reality  of  her  coming.  In  the  sudden  forcefulness  of 
his  reply  she  saw  a  hint  of  the  Bob  that  had  been. 

"You  mean — Paul  Remington?  But  that  is  not 
your  fault.  I — I  only — am  responsible  for  that.  I 
tried  to  shape  his  life  after  mine — a  poor  model,  Mrs. 
Gilbert.  I  tried  to  cut  him  off  from  his  happiness. 
Being  what  he  was,  he  had  to  leave  me.  And  there 
were — others — who  were  tempting  him.  We  were  too 
much  for  him." 

"Ah !  But  I  made  it  easy  for  him  to  yield  by  mak- 
ing him  discontented — " 

"It  began  before  that.  But  that  was  your  right, 
too.  I  tried  to  cut  you  off  from  your  happiness." 

"But — it  makes  what  I  did  the  more  shameful — my 
happiness  was  not  involved,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

He  shook  his  head  gravely.  "It  might  have  been. 
He  was  very  lovable."  He  used  the  past  tense  in 
which  we  speak  of  the  dead. 

Again  their  eyes  fell  apart,  and  there  was  a  silence. 
He  looked  out  of  the  window;  his  face  was  sad. 
Absently  she  stripped  the  glove  from  her  right  hand, 
her  fingers  twisting  and  untwisting  it  nervously.  She 
forced  herself  to  speak. 

"You  have  learned  the  lesson  of  generosity  well, 
Mr.  McAdoo." 

"I  have  to  earn  the  charity  that  has  been  given  me 
— from  every  one — now  from  you."  A  tinge  of  color 
came  into  his  pale  cheeks,  as  once  more  the  face  of  the 
stricken  woman  came  before  him.  "I  was  cruel,  brutal, 


THE  FORCE  WHICH  IS  LOVE    353 

to  you — yet  you  could  come  here.  Doesn't  that  prove 
that  you,  too,  have  forgiven  much — far  more  than  I  ?" 

"No !    For  what  you  said  was  true." 

Again  he  shook  his  head  gravely.  "You  mustn't 
say  that.  I  have  learned  to  see  things  more  clearly.  I 
was  cruelly  unjust." 

"Ah !  you  are  generous !  And  I  was  afraid  to  come 
— afraid  of  your  judgment!  You  make  me  the  more 
ashamed — " 

"Don't!"  he  cried  sharply,  as  if  in  pain.  "It  hurts 
to  see  you  abase  yourself  before  me!" 

Again  a  silence,  while  his  eyes  held  hers.  The 
quality  of  his  gaze  frightened  her.  It  was  saying  too 
much — breaking  down  her  self-command,  drawing  her 
to  him.  She  spoke  hastily. 

"Mr.  McAdoo,  do  you  know  that  he  has  disap- 
peared ?" 

She  saw  then  the  hurt  that  had  been  put  upon  him. 
"Yes.  I  have  tried  to  have  him  found,  but  they  can 
discover  no  trace  of  him.  But  I  will  not  give  up  until 
he  is  found — and  our  fault  repaired."  He  used  the 
plural  unconsciously. 

"When  you  find  him,  will  you  let  me  know?  I 
shall  send  an  address  to  the  Dunmeades." 

"You  are  going  away?" 

"Yes.    To-morrow." 

"And  you  will  not  come  back."  He  did  not  ask  a 
question. 

He  turned  once  more  to  look  out  into  the  street. 
But  he  saw  nothing  there.  He  was  measuring  the 
meaning  of  the  moment.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had 
met  without  that  unnatural,  disturbing  sense  of  hos- 
tility. She  had  changed,  as  had  he;  he  felt  it  in  her 


354         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

every  word,  in  her  presence.  Yet  her  humility  hurt 
him  strangely.  Those  who  have  suffered  are  quick  to 
sense  sorrow  in  others;  he  felt  that  somehow,  in  the 
collapse  of  his  temple  to  self,  she,  too,  had  been  borne 
down,  crushed.  He  had  "many  things  to  make  up  to 
her'' — and  he  would  never  have  the  chance;  she  was 
going  away,  out  of  his  life,  as  suddenly  as  she  had 
come.  .  .  .  Both  feared  the  next  meeting  of  eyes. 
Each  had  a  secret  that  must  be  withheld.  Yet  by  that 
telepathy  which  informs  hearts  even  across  the  dis- 
tances, each  guessed  the  other's  secret,  knew  that  the 
frank  intimacy  of  the  moment  sprang  from  more  than 
a  common  regret,  was  more  than  the  death  of  an  un- 
reasoning hostility.  But  they  were  not  children.  The 
scales  had  fallen  from  their  eyes.  Both  knew  that 
before  life's  happiness  comes  life's  responsibility,  and 
that  they,  in  their  game  of  cross-purposes,  had  assumed 
a  responsibility  which  was  not  yet  fulfilled.  Because 
the  lesson  was  but  newly  learned,  they  enjoined  them- 
selves the  more  sternly  to  abide  by  it. 

She  rose.  He,  too,  got  to  his  feet.  She  held  out 
her  ungloved  hand.  He  took  it  again  in  his  strong 
clasp.  Her  lips  tried  to  fashion  a  conventional  fare- 
well. 

"I  hope  you  will  soon  get  your  strength  back — and 
that  you  will  be  successful  always — and  happy."  At 
the  last  words  her  voice  began  to  falter. 

"I  pray  that  life  will  be  kinder  to  you  than  it  has 
been,  Mrs.  Gilbert.  And  that  you  will  forget  all  this 
— and  me."  Unsteadiness  was  in  his  voice,  too. 

"Can  we  forget?" 

"I  don't  want  to  forget !"  he  cried. 

"Nor  do  I  want  to  forget!"     The  crimson  flooded 


THE  FORCE  WHICH  IS  LOVE    355 

to  her  cheeks.  But  the  unruly  tongue  ran  on.  "I 
couldn't  forget,  if  I  would!  That  night — when  we 
thought  you  were  dying — it  is  before  me  always. 
When  I  saw  you  lying  there — it  seemed  to  me  that  / 
had  struck  you  down — " 

"You  were  here — !  I  don't  understand.  You 
came — " 

"Ah!  can't  you  see?  I  had  to  come — to  make  my 
acknowledgment.  I  thought  you  were  dying — Miss 
Flinn  was  nearest  to  you — I  told  her.  She  made  me 
promise  to  come  to  you  when  you  were  able.  That 
is  why  I  am  here  now — " 

She  would  have  withdrawn  her  hand,  but  his  clasp 
tightened.  His  left  hand  fumbled  at  his  throat,  as 
though  he  were  choking.  "I  don't  understand.  You 
cared  enough  to  come — " 

"Ah !  can't  you  see  ?"  she  cried  piteously. 

"Why  did  you  come  into  my  life — to  teach  me  my 
lesson — to  go  away  now?  Why,  since  you  must  go 
away,  were  you  chosen  by  the  Force,  which  is — " 

Before  him  flashed  the  interpretation  of  the  past  few 
months,  of  the  memory  that  had  outlived  the  busy, 
crowded  years.  His  face  lighted  up  with  a  look  no 
man  or  woman  had  ever  seen  there. 

"It  wasn't  you  I  hated — it  wasn't  you  I  fought 
against,  but — love!" 

Words  that  spoke  of  themselves!  He  lifted  his 
head  sharply,  as  does  the  stag  in  the  forest  when  he 
hears  the  call  of  his  far-away  mate.  His  eyes  caught 
hers  in  the  grip  that  would  not  be  denied,  crying  out 
that  she  was  his — his!  His  weakness  was  forgotten. 
His  physical  being  thrilled  in  every  fiber.  .  .  .  The 
crimson  ebbed.  Her  eyes  wavered,  fell — returned  to 


356         THE  MAX  HIGHER  UP 

his,  luminous  with  the  answer.    .    .    .    The  moment 
ended. 

"Mr.  McAdoo,  there  is  a  ruined  life  between  us !" 

She  was  gone,  leaving  Bob  alone. 

And  yet  not  alone.  For  with  him  was  the  memory  of 
a  thrilling,  wonderful  moment  when  he  had  looked  into 
the  depths  of  a  woman's  heart.  And  between  them  lay 
an  impassable  barrier,  a  barrier  of  their  own  building. 

He  bowed  his  face  in  his  hands  and  prayed — prayed 
for  courage  and  patience  and  faith  to  bear  his  punish- 
ment— and  to  atone. 


CHAPTER  III 

ATONEMENT 

THERE  was  one  matter  to  be  settled  before  Bob 
might  begin  to  work  out  his  own  and  his  city's 
political  regeneration.  Two  good  friends  took  this 
burden  from  his  shoulders. 

Hardly  had  his  convalescence  begun  when  Sanger's 
newspapers  began  to  hint,  at  first  vaguely,  then  more 
boldly,  at  possible  criminal  prosecutions,  even  impeach- 
ment proceedings,  on  the  ground  of  Bob's  fraudulent 
nomination.  A  murmur  of  protest  arose  from  the  city. 
If  the  man  had  sinned,  had  he  not  suffered  for  his  sin? 
But  Haggin,  knowing  more  of  the  quality  of  his  chiefs 
enemies,  spent  many  a  sleepless  night  over  the  news- 
paper growlings. 

He  finally  went  to  District  Attorney  Martin. 

"We  got  to  stop  it,"  he  said  anxiously.  "We  got 
to  stop  it — an'  now.  But  I  dunno  how." 

Martin  surveyed  the  saloon-keeper  thoughtfully. 
"It's  a  pretty  tough  nut  to  crack.  There's  nothing  in 
the  threat  of  impeachment.  But  the  prosecutions — 
Hmm !  Why  can't  we  wait  until  we  can  see  McAdoo 
himself  about  this?  It  isn't  so  much  a  matter  of  legal 
knowledge  as  of  knowing  your  opponent." 

"No,  we  can't  wait  to  see  him."    Haggin  shook  his 

357 


THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

shaggy  head  emphatically.  "I  don't  want  him  to 
know  nothin'  about  it  till  it's  all  settled,  one  way  or 
'nuther.  He's  got  troubles  enough  of  his  own,  with- 
out botherin'  with  mine." 

"I  should  think  that  this  is  his  trouble  more  than 
yours,"  Martin  suggested  dryly. 

"An'  that's  where  you're  dead  wrong,"  Haggin  an- 
swered eagerly.  "It  wasn't  him  bought  up  those  dele- 
gates— it  was  me!" 

Martin  sprang  to  his  feet  excitedly.  "What!  You 
did  it?  But  his  confession — Remington's  affidavit — 
Haggin,  you're  lying  to  save  him !" 

"No,  I  ain't  lyin'.  It  was  Bob  lyin'  when  he  told 
Remington — damn  him! — that  he  done  it.  I  tell  you, 
7  done  it.  It  was  this  way,  Martin.  They  comes  to 
me — I  s'posin'  it  was  MacPherson  all  the  time,  but  it 
was  Sanger  really — an'  tries  to  buy  me  an'  my  votes 
in  the  convention.  I  jollies  'em  along  till  I  knows  all 
they've  got  up  their  sleeve.  Then  I  tells  Bob.  He 
ain't  feazed  fer  a  damn.  There  ain't  time  for  him  to 
see  all  the  Hemenway  delegates,  so  he  gives  me  some 
of  'em  to  handle  an'  he  takes  the  rest.  An'  he  tells  me, 
'Mind  you,  Tom,  use  no  money  now.  That's  straight. 
I've  got  to  come  out  of  this  with  clean  hands.'  He 
sees  his  men  an'  bluffs  'em — scares  hell  out  of  'em — 
he's  got  the  goods  on  'em,  you  know — an'  lines  'em 
up  right  under  Mack's  and  Sanger's  noses.  1  sees  my 
men — some  of  'em  I  bluffs,  an'  some  of  'em  I  can't. 
I  gets  cold  feet  on  the  clean  hands  proposition  an' 
buys  'em  off.  Uses  my  own  money  an'  he  don't  know 
nothin'  about  it.  Does  it,  'spite  of  his  orders." 

"But  Remington  said — " 

"I'm  comin'  to  that.     Afterward — 'bout  two  weeks 


ATONEMENT  359 

before  election  day,  he  finds  out  about  it — from  that 
skunk  Malassey.  He  ought  to  kick  me  out,but  he  don't. 
Just  sits  down,  writes  out  a  check  fer  what  I  spent  an' 
makes  me  take  it.  Never  says  a  word,  excep'  somethin' 
about  there  not  bein'  enough  soap  an'  water  in  the 
world  to  wash  his  hands  clean.  Then  when  Reming- 
ton accuses  him  of  buyin'  the  delegates,  he  takes  all 
the  blame  an'  never  says  a  word  about  me.  I  wish 
to  God,"  Haggin  concluded  miserably,  "somebody'd 
kill  me !" 

Martin's  keen  eyes  were  boring  into  Haggin's  merci- 
lessly. Neither  spoke  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  Hag- 
gin  broke  the  silence  hesitatingly. 

"Say,  Martin,  why  can't  you  prosecute  me  fer  it? 
I'll  plead  guilty  an'  tell  everything  up  to  where  he 
paid  me  back  my  money." 

"You'd  go  to  jail.    I  couldn't  protect  you." 

"I  don't  care,"  Haggin  answered  desperately.  "By 
God !  I'd  like  to.  It'd  serve  me  right  fer  bein'  such  a 
fool  as  not  to  do  what  he  told  me.  An'  it'd  clear  him." 

Suddenly  Martin  pushed  a  book  toward  Haggin. 

"Haggin,  put  your  hand  on  this  Bible."  The 
"Bible"  happened  to  be  a  dictionary,  but  Haggin 
knew  no  better.  "Do  you  swear  on  this  book  that 
what  you  have  said  is  the  truth  ?" 

"I  swear,"  Haggin  answered  steadily,  his  eyes  not 
faltering  before  Martin's  searching  glance. 

"Upon  my  soul !"  Martin  dropped  limply  back  into 
his  chair.  "I  don't  know  whether  you're  lying  or  not." 

Haggin  swore  in  his  misery.  "Course  I'm  tellin' 
the  truth.  Do  you  think  I  want  to  go  to  jail  fer 
nothin'." 

Martin  wrinkled  his  brow  over  the  problem. 


360         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Haggin,"  he  said  abruptly,  after  a  few  minutes' 
thinking,  "tell  me  all  you  know  about  that  convention 
business." 

And  Haggin  told  him  a  tale  of  wholesale  corruption 
such  as  to  cause  even  Martin,  familiar  as  he  was  with 
the  devious  and  foul  methods  of  our  politics,  to  ex- 
perience a  qualm  of  disgust. 

"We'll  see,"  he  said,  when  the  account  was  finished. 
"I  don't  think  you'll  have  to  go  to  jail,  Haggin." 

It  was  reported  next  morning  that  District  Attorney 
Martin  had  left  the  city  for  a  two  weeks'  vacation. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  quietly  at  work  ferreting 
out  certain  facts  in  connection  with  the  convention 
bribery. 

The  end  of  his  two  weeks'  work  was  marked  by  a 
series  of  meetings  between  him  and  certain  lesser  poli- 
ticians who  had  been  prominent  in  Larkin's  campaign. 
These  were  followed  by  a  conference  \vith  MacPher- 
son,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  latter  left,  white 
and  shaking. 

Then  Martin  called  on  Henry  Sanger,  Jr.  The 
two  were  closeted  for  over  an  hour.  When  Martin 
rose  to  leave,  he  remarked : 

,  "It  is  understood  then — your  papers  are  muzzled, 
or  I  publish  these  affidavits  and  begin  proceedings  my- 
self. You  understand,  too,  that  the  statute  of  limita- 
tions runs  two  years  on  these  offenses  ?  That  is  clear, 
I  hope?" 

"Perfectly,"  Sanger  answered  coolly.  "For  two 
years  you  have  me  tied.  After  that — we  shall  resume 
hostilities  on  an  equal  footing.  You're  a  smart  law- 
yer, Martin.'1 

"And,  by  the  way,   Mr.   Sanger,"   Martin  added, 


ATONEMENT  361 

"you  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  McAdoo  did  not 
bribe  those  delegates  and  knew  nothing  about  it  until 
weeks  after  the  convention.  You  are  now  fighting 
an  honest  man." 

"Indeed!"  Sanger  answered  indifferently.  "Good 
afternoon,  Mr.  Martin." 

Thereafter  newspaper  discussion  of  the  nomination 
was  dropped. 

When  Bob  was  strong  enough  to  be  allowed  to  re- 
ceive visitors,  Martin  went  to  him  and  told  him  all 
these  things.  Bob  listened  without  interrupting  the 
flow  of  the  tale. 

At  its  conclusion  he  said  simply,  "You're  a  good 
friend,  Martin."  And  Martin  somehow  felt  very 
happy. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,  Mr.  McAdoo,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment's  silence.  "When  Haggin  told  me 
that  you  hadn't  known  of  the  bribing,  I  thought  he 
was  lying — until  I  had  other  evidence.  I'm  ashamed 
that—" 

"Don't !"  Martin  thought  he  caught  a  note  of  pain 
in  Bob's  voice.  "You  had  no  reason  to  think  me  above 
it.  I  had  done  things  as  bad — or  worse.  My  hands 
aren't  very  clean,  Martin.  And  Haggin  was  my  agent 
in  the  matter.  He  did  it  for  me." 

"Clean  hands  or  not,  Mr.  McAdoo,"  Martin  ex- 
claimed impulsively.  "I'd  rather  fight  under  you  than 
under  any  other  man  in  the  country." 

He  went  away  wondering  at  the  new  McAdoo  he 
had  found. 

Others,  too,  saw  and  wondered.  For  there  was  a 
new  McAdoo  indeed.  The  lesson  had  sunk  deep. 
Kathleen,  watching  closely,  in  real  dread  lest  with 


362         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

returning  strength  the  old  spirit  should  return,  saw  that 
the  change  was  complete  and  permanent.  The  old  Bob, 
arrogant,  self -aggrandizing,  hard,  lay  dead  amid  the 
fragments  of  his  shattered  self-god.  Something  more 
Kathleen  saw,  that  he  bore  the  burden  of  a  profound 
sorrow  and  shame. 

None  the  less,  however,  his  old  certainty  and  force- 
fulness  remained  with  him,  as  his  enemies  soon  dis- 
covered. 

And  his  was  no  easy  task,  to  keep  his  people's  inter- 
est in  him  and  his  work  at  effective  heat.  He  had  need 
of  popular  support;  the  old  corrupt  methods  were  for 
ever  discarded.  His  people  had  rallied  around  him  dur- 
ing the  campaign,  and  when  they  believed  him  to  be 
dying  had  mourned;  but,  after  all,  their  interest  was 
for  the  man  rather  than  for  an  idea  and,  once  the 
campaign  excitement  subsided,  interest  slackened  per- 
ceptibly. Perhaps,  too,  they  had  at  heart  expected 
little  from  him ;  they  were  content  with  little. 

His  enemies  had  much  material  with  which  to  work. 
Although  he  had  been  elected,  they  had  succeeded  in 
electing  a  slight  majority  in  the  city  councils.  Their 
forces  were  carefully  organized  to  fight  him.  Yet  the 
advantage  was  all  with  Bob.  For  Sanger's  ring,  bound 
only  by  the  ties  of  self-interest,  must  needs  foster  many 
corrupt  measures  in  the  city's  legislature.  Bob,  looking 
only  to  the  people's  needs,  was  free  to  veto  these  meas- 
ures. The  struggle,  growing  more  dramatic  as  the 
months  went  by,  served  to  counteract  the  popular 
tendency  to  lose  interest.  Each  successive  election  saw 
his  organization,  both  in  his  party  and  in  the  city  gov- 
ernment, become  stronger. 

Nor  were  Bob's  political  activities  confined  to  the 


ATONEMENT  363 

Steel  City.  Murchell,  although  he  amazed  his  friends 
and  physicians  by  the  tenacity  with  which  he  held  on 
to  life,  grew  steadily  weaker.  Under  his  guidance, 
Bob  and  Dunmeade  together  fought  against  the  rail- 
road-steel interests,  with  whom  the  open  break  had  at 
last  come.  It  was  a  tremendous  struggle,  that  stirred 
the  commonwealth  to  its  uttermost  limits. 

Bob's  part  in  the  state  campaign  took  him  often  to 
the  capital,  where  he  was  received  frankly  into  the 
beautiful  home  life  of  the  governor's  family.  These 
glimpses  of  a  happiness  and  content  he  had  never 
known  made  his  own  life  seem  the  drearier. 

"What  I  have  missed  in  my  blindness!"  he  thought. 
Yet  there  was  no  complaint.  "I  have  deserved  it  all 
—all!" 

Sometimes  he  found  himself  alone  with  Mrs.  Dun- 
meade. From  her  he  received  his  only  news  of  Eleanor 
Gilbert  during  all  those  long  months. 

"You  have  Mrs.  Gilbert's  address?"  he  asked  ab- 
ruptly one  evening  when,  after  a  long  conference,  they 
had  induced  him  to  remain  overnight  at  the  capital. 

"Yes.  She  is  in  New  York."  Mrs.  Dunmeade  gave 
him  an  address. 

"I  supposed  she  was  abroad." 

"She  was,  for  a  few  months,  studying  music.  Then 
she  grew  homesick  for  her  own  country,  I  think,  for 
she  suddenly  changed  her  plans  and  returned.  We 
wanted  her  to  make  her  home  with  us.  But  she  pre- 
ferred to  stay  in  New  York.  She  is  doing  settlement 
work." 

"Settlement  work!"  But  Mrs.  Dunmeade  misun- 
derstood his  tone. 

"It  is  not  to  be  despised,  Mr.  McAdoo,"  she  said 


364         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

in  quiet  reproof.  "I  know  how  little  such  things  ap- 
peal to  big  men  like  you." 

"I  don't  despise  it,  Mrs.  Dunmeade."  And  she 
was  surprised  at  the  forcefulness  of  his  answer.  "No 
work  is  to  be  despised  that  means  sacrifice." 

"Ah!  But  it  doesn't  mean  sacrifice.  I  don't  think 
you  understand  her.  The  old  life  meant  nothing  to 
her.  From  her  letters  I  know  that  in  her  work,  the 
first  real  work  she  has  ever  had — even  though  it  is 
small — she  is  happier  than  ever  before." 

"I'm  glad  she  is  happy.  Will  you  write  to  her,"  he 
added  immediately,  "that  we  have  found  no  trace  of 
Paul  Remington ?  But  that  I  am  still  searching."  Mrs. 
Dunmeade  did  not  ask  why  he  himself  should  not 
write. 

This  was  just  before  the  famous  "gas  franchise 
war,"  which  finally  gave  Bob's  enemies  into  his  hands. 
The  Steel  City's  homes  were  dependent  for  heat  upon 
natural  gas,  supplied  by  a  company  operating  under  an 
exclusive  franchise  from  the  city.  This  franchise  pro- 
vided for  an  extortionate  maximum  charge,  the  en- 
forcement of  which  had  worked  great  hardship  on  the 
consumers.  But  when  the  McAdoo  administration  was 
a  year  old  the  monopoly's  rights  had  almost  expired 
and  an  extension,  under  the  old  terms,  was  demanded 
by  the  gas  company.  Bob  immediately,  in  a  public 
message,  declared  that  he  would  oppose  the  extension, 
unless  it  provided  for  a  reasonable  rate  to  the  con- 
sumer. His  message  was  hailed  with  huzzas  by  the 
long-suffering  public. 

MacPherson,  resurrected  to  organize  the  council- 
manic  opposition  to  Bob,  led  the  fight  for  the  ordi- 
nance. His  genius  for  corruption,  never  so  shamefully 


ATONEMENT  365 

brilliant,  was  given  free  play.  Bob  resorted  to  every 
method  his  craft  could  devise  to  defeat  the  ordinance, 
but  in  vain;  the  measure  passed  both  houses  of  coun- 
cils. 

When  it  was  presented  to  Bob  for  approval,  he 
vetoed  it  with  a  clear  explanation  of  his  reasons  for  so 
doing. 

The  bill  was  reintroduced  into  councils  in  the  hope 
of  securing  the  two-thirds  majority  necessary  to  pass 
it  over  the  mayor's  veto. 

The  councilmen  found  themselves  between  two  hot 
fires.  On  the  one  hand  was  MacPherson;  and  the 
mayor  saw  more  than  one  supposedly  stanch  follower 
caught  in  his  enemy's  net.  On  the  other  hand  was 
Bob — with  the  people  awakened  to  a  fury  of  indigna- 
tion. The  Steel  City  had  never  known  such  an  upris- 
ing. The  awakening  was  complete.  Beneath  the 
immediate  problem  of  dollars  and  cents  the  people  had 
discerned  a  principle;  the  thing  that  Sanger  feared — 
moral  passion — was  fanned  into  life. 

The  tale  is  told  that  during  the  night  and  day  pre- 
ceding the  final  reading  of  the  ordinance,  MacPherson 
kept  his  councilmen  secretly  locked  together  in  an  ob- 
scure hotel,  away  from  the  influence  of  the  crowds. 
On  the  hour  of  the  council's  meeting  they  were  quietly 
marched  to  their  chamber  in  a  body,  guarded  by  Mac- 
Pherson in  person. 

When  they  reached  the  council  chambers  those  rene- 
gades must  have  trembled.  Every  available  inch  of 
space  in  the  spectator's  gallery  was  packed  by  indig- 
nant citizens.  There  was  no  clamor.  Those  stern- 
faced,  determined  men  were  not  of  the  stuff  of  which 
mobs  are  made.  Over  the  gallery — significant  fact ! — 


366         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

hung  ropes,  each  with  a  noose  tied  at  its  dangling  end. 
MacPherson's  glare  could  not  stay  the  panic  in  his 
creatures'  hearts.  He  was  a  bold  man,  indeed,  who 
would  vote  for  the  ordinance  that  night. 

And  into  the  chamber  they  saw  Bob  walk.  From 
the  gallery  came  one  hoarse  shout,  stilled  instantly  by 
his  raised  hand.  Straight  to  MacPherson,  standing 
at  one  side,  where  he  could  watch  the  proceedings. 
Bob  strode.  The  two  glared  at  each  other  for  one 
tense  moment,  MacPherson  with  hot,  vindictive  ha- 
tred, Bob  with  steady  determination. 

"Get  out  of  this  chamber !"  It  was  Bob  who  spoke 
— in  a  quiet,  repressed  tone  which  nevertheless  carried 
a  threat. 

MacPherson  sneered.  "I  have  the  right  to  be 
here—" 

"Get  out  of  this  chamber!"  This  time  the  voice 
rang  through  the  silence  of  the  crowded  hall. 

"By  God !  I'll  stay  here  until  I'm  good  and  ready  to 
leave,  Bob  McAdoo!" 

"MacPherson!"  Bob  pointed  to  the  crowded  gal- 
lery. "You  see  that  crowd.  If  I  were  to  give  the 
word,  they  would  tear  you  to  pieces.  That  crowd 
means  business.  I  won't  give  them  the  word,  but  un- 
less you  go — and  now — I'll  throw  you  out.  I  won't 
answer  for  what  happens  after  that." 

MacPherson  looked  at  the  grirn,  crowd  and  the 
grimmer  man  in  front  of  him.  His  sallow  visage  be- 
came yellower  than  ever. 

He  began  what  was  meant  to  be  a  defiant  reply. 
"You  dare  lay  one  finger  on  me — " 

He  got  no  further.     He  saw  Bob's  big  hand  shoot 


ATONEMENT  367 

out  toward  him,  felt  a  grip  like  a  steel  vise  clutch  his 
shoulder. 

MacPherson  turned  tail  and  ran,  slinking  out  of  the 
hall  amid  unbroken  silence. 

Bob  turned  to  the  councilmen. 

"Now  then — beat  that  ordinance!"  he  said  quietly. 

So  the  ordinance  was  defeated.  Some  days  later  a 
new  ordinance,  drawn  up  under  Bob's  direction,  was 
introduced.  In  due  time  it  passed,  signed  and  accepted 
by  the  gas  company. 

The  night  after  Bob's  victory,  fifty  thousand  of  the 
Steel  City's  best  citizens  paraded  before  his  home  and 
cheered  him  as  the  next  governor. 

The  cheering  thousands  marched  on,  leaving  the 
quiet  street  to  return  to  its  wonted  dingy  calm.  Kath- 
leen, proud  and  rejoicing,  sought  Bob  in  his  library. 
The  man  in  whose  honor  a  great  city  had  made  holiday 
sat  before  the  fire  in  an  attitude  of  complete  dejection. 
Unnoticed,  she  halted  on  the  threshold ;  often  during 
the  past  year  she  had  found  him  so  and  had  stolen  away 
without  breaking  in  on  his  loneliness. 

She  started  to  steal  away  as  before.  Then,  impul- 
sively turning,  she  went  swiftly  to  his  side. 

"Bob,"  she  cried  tremulously,  "what  is  it?" 

He  looked  up  at  her,  startled,  and  rose  with  an  evi- 
dent effort  to  collect  himself. 

"Nothing,  KatMeen,"  he  said  in  a  tired  voice. 
"Nothing  that  matters  much." 

"Ah !  but  there  is  something  that  matters.  Haven't 
we  all  seen  it?  You're  breaking  our  hearts,  Bob." 

"I  haven't  meant  to  trouble  you  with  my  moods." 

"And  to-night,  with  all  these  people  showing  you 


368 

their  love  and  pride  in  you — when  you  have  deserved 
it  so  well — when  you  should  be  only  proud  and  happy 
— I  find  you  here — so !"  Her  voice  almost  broke. 

"Don't!"  He  shrank  from  her  praise  as  he  never 
shrank  from  a  physical  blow.  "That's  what  hurts  to- 
night. I  have  not1  deserved  their  kindness.  I  have 
done  so  little.  Nothing!" 

"Nothing!  It  means  nothing  to  you  to  have  stood 
between  nearly  a  million  people  and  injustice?" 

"But  /  didn't  do  that,"  he  insisted,  with  weary  pa- 
tience. "What  has  been  done,  the  people  did  them- 
selves. All  I  did  was  to  veto  a  bill  any  clever  poli- 
tician would  have  vetoed  as  a  matter  of  policy,  and  to 
pull  off  a  shallow,  theatrical  trick  that,  after  all,  prob- 
ably wasn't  necessary." 

"But,"  she  cried,  "who  began  the  fight?  Who  led 
public  sentiment  and  made  it  effective?  These  people 
to-night  were  right — it  has  been  your  victory!  No 
wonder  they're  so  proud  of  you — the  good,  kind  peo- 
ple!" 

"Too  good,  too  kind!"  he  answered  with  a  bitter- 
ness that  was  all  toward  himself.  "They  forget  all  the 
evil  and  remember  only  the  little  good.  But  /  can't! 
And  to-night — they  have  made  me  feel  small  and 
mean." 

"Small  and  mean!  Bob,  will  you  never  learn  to 
know  yourself?  I — "  Her  voice  broke  in  a  little 
laugh  that  was  near  to  tears — "I'd  like  to  shake  you !" 

He  smiled.  "I  wish  you  would,  Kathleen.  That's 
the  only  way  I  can  learn,  it  seems,  by  having  the  truth 
shaken,  pounded  into  me." 

Tears  came  to  her  eyes.  "Ah!  don't  think  I  don't 
know  what  this  long  year  has  been  to  you,"  she  said 


ATONEMENT  369 

pityingly.  "You  were  always  cruel  to  yourself,  driving 
yourself  mercilessly,  even  when — " 

"When  I  was  a  selfish  brute." 

"Before  you  found  yourself.  And  now  you're  far, 
more  harsh  and  unforgiving  toward  yourself  than  you 
are  to  others.  Haven't  I  seen  your  heartache  ?  I  know 
how  you  have  counted  on  finding  Paul  and  remaking 
his  life,  and  how  bitter  the  disappointment  has  been. 
And,"  she  rushed  on,  though  she  knew  his  soul  was 
writhing  at  being  thus  laid  bare,  "I  know  about  her. 
Bob,  give  over  your  self-inflicted  punishment,  go  to 
her  and  take  happiness — for  both  of  you." 

The  slow  red  burned  its  way  to  his  face.  His  eyes 
gleamed  strangely.  "Not  that!"  he  said  sternly;  she 
knew  that  the  sternness  was  for  the  hope  within  him 
that  would  not  die.  "That  can  never  be." 

"But  it  can  be.    She  loves  you." 

"Kathleen,  there  is  Paul  Remington's  ruined  life. 
No  good,  no  happiness  can  come  from  a  love  that  has 
that  to  answer  for." 

"How  I  have  hoped,"  she  almost  wailed,  "how  I 
have  prayed,  that  you  would  find  your  real  self,  your 
real  place  in  life!  But  not  like  this — never  like  this! 
I  wanted  you  to  be  happy.  Don't  punish  yourself — 
forgive !  Go  to  her,  Bob,  and  be  happy." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  could  seek  happiness  while  Paul 
Remington's  life  is  spoiled  because  I  drove  him  into 
temptations  he  couldn't  resist?  I  might  have  made 
him  strong,  a  good  man,  but  never  by  word  or  act  did 
I  teach  him  anything  but  selfishness  and  hypocrisy.  If 
I  were  to  shirk  my  punishment,  I'd  be  a  contemptible 
coward. 

"My  punishment/-'  he  went  on  quietly,  "my  punish- 


370         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

ment  is  just.  Exactly  the  penalty  a  just  God  would 
devise.  I'm  not  whining." 

"You  poor,  elemental  child!"  she  exclaimed  pity- 
ingly. "What  are  you — what  is  any  of  us — in  God's 
scheme  of  things,  that  our  punishment  should  be  so 
important?" 

Bob  looked  at  her,  even  in  his  fanatical  self-torture 
startled  by  the  new  thought. 

She  rose  to  leave  him.  "Ever  since  you  were  sick, 
I've  seen  you  lashing  yourself  in  your  self-imposed 
penance,  exaggerating  your  faults,  belittling  your  good 
work — as  though  God  cares  for  your  punishment ! 
Duty  ought  to  mean  happiness — and  you  get  nothing 
but  a  useless  misery  out  of  it.  I  thought  you  had 
found  yourself.  But  you  haven't.  You  have  still  one 
lesson  to  learn,  faith.  If  I  had  not  faith,  I  shouldn't 
want  to  live.  I  couldn't  be  happy." 

"Yes,  you  are  happy.  And  yet,"  he  said  slowly, 
"and  yet  I  have  sometimes  fancied  that  you  have  had 
your  heartache." 

"Yes,  I  am  happy,"  she  said.  And  her  face  glowed. 
"I  am  happy.  I'd  hate  to  be  so  small  as  to  be  unhappy, 
merely  because  God  hasn't  arranged  everything  to  my 
liking." 

She  left  him. 

"If  only  I  could  find  him,  if  only  I  could  find  him !" 
he  cried  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  PRODIGAL 

A  WESTBOUND  express  train  was  rattling  down 
4*-  the  mountains.  It  was  early  spring  even  among 
the  hills.  Occasional  patches  of  color  flashed  by, 
where  dogwood  and  laurel,  hardy  pioneers,  waved 
defiance  to  departing  winter.  Back  in  the  flat  lands, 
passengers  on  the  train  had  caught  glimpses  of  farm- 
ers, busy  with  their  spring  plowing.  Field  and  forest 
were  astir,  thrilling  in  a  new  life,  bringing  forth  new 
life. 

A  man  on  the  train,  dividing  his  attention  between 
the  panorama  without  and  the  fretful  child  on  his  knee, 
to  his  surprise  discovered  in  a  flickering  inward  glow 
a  feeble  response  to  the  life  without.  He  was  going 
home,  with  fear  and  little  hope  in  his  heart,  yet  he 
caught  himself  counting  the  mileposts  with  growing 
eagerness,  as  the  train  swung  around  the  hills. 

"The  eternal  witchery  of  spring,"  he  murmured  to 
himself,  "filling  our  hearts  with  life  and  hope — false 
hope,  sometimes."  He  repressed  his  mood  wearily 
and  turned  his  attention  to  humoring  the  child,  who 
was  becoming  restless. 

Out  of  the  mountains   rattled  the  train,   through 

371 


372         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

smoky  tunnels,  around  sharp  curves,  into  the  foot-hills. 
A  yellow  brick  station  flashed  by. 

"Why,  that  is —  The  man  named  the  station. 
"Just  sixty  miles  more !" 

The  child  was  asleep  now  and  he  turned  once  more 
to  the  flying-  scenery.  Familiar  touches  in  the  land- 
scape greeted  him.  A  stranger  would  have  turned 
away,  since  man  had  added  no  beauty  to  those  hills. 
But  he  was  a  prodigal,  returning  from  the  far  country, 
and  he  eyed  them  with  a  certain  wistful  friendliness 
— yellow-brown  streams  running  away  from  the  iron 
and  sulphur  beds ;  great,  gaping  holes  in  the  hillsides, 
with  their  attendant  pyramids  of  coal;  oil  derricks, 
tossed  aloft  like  huge  ladders  resting  on  the  clouds; 
the  coke  ovens,  a  hundred  red  eyes  gleaming  through 
the  dusk;  detached  factories,  outposts  of  the  great 
industrial  army. 

The  train  stopped.  A  newsboy  came  aboard,  crying 
the  evening  papers.  A  passenger  who  occupied  the 
seat  in  front  of  the  man  with  the  child  bought  one. 

"I  see  Murchell's  dying,"  he  remarked  to  his  neigh- 
bor across  the  aisle.  "A  big  loss  to  this  state !" 

"Not  so  big  as  if  we  didn't  have  McAdoo,"  returned 
the  other. 

"That's  true.  They're  turning  their  guns  on  him 
already,  too.  Revived  that  old  nomination  story.  For 
my  part  I  don't  believe  it." 

"I  do  believe  it,  but  I  don't  care.  I'd  have  done  the 
same  under  the  circumstances.  A  lot  of  people  will 
care,  though.  Funny  about  us  Americans — the  oc- 
casional slip-up  of  a  good  man  cuts  a  bigger  figure  with 
us  than  the  continual  crimes  of  a  really  dishonest  one. 
He'll  be  governor,  though." 


THE  PRODIGAL  373 

The  train  started,  and  the  man  with  the  child  lost 
the  answer.  He  shrank  back  in  his  chair.  "How  can 
I  go  back  ?  How  can  they  let  me  ?  O,  God,  keep  my 
courage  alive!" 

The  dusk  faded  into  night.  Through  long  stretches 
of  dingy  factory  towns  roared  the  train.  Into  the  big 
city.  The  man  with  the  child  began  awkwardly  to 
wrap  his  charge  against  the  night  air.  His  hands 
trembled  violently.  When  the  train  stopped  he 
alighted,  quaking  inwardly.  He  pulled  his  hat  well 
down,  walking  with  head  bent  over  the  child  in  his 
arms,  lest  among  the  bustling  crowds  at  the  depot 
might  be  some  who  recognized  him.  He  took  a 
cab,  fearing  the  curious  eyes  of  the  street-car  passen- 
gers. He  need  not  have  feared ;  the  people  of  that  city 
had  long  since  cast  him  out  of  their  memories.  The 
worn-out  horse  dragged  its  load  slowly  enough  up  the 
steep  streets,  but  to  the  fare  he  seemed  to  be  flying. 

They  turned  into  a  familiar,  quiet  street.  The  prod- 
igal's limbs  were  shaking  so  that  he  could  hardly  hold 
the  child.  His  heart  beat  painfully.  Wild  thoughts 
of  leaving  the  baby  on  the  doorstep  and  fleeing  rushed 
through  his  brain.  The  cab  stopped.  The  passenger, 
shivering,  got  out. 

He  walked  slowly  up  the  gravel  path  leading  to  the 
porch.  He  could  see  into  the  brightly  lighted  library. 
He  knew  every  little  detail  of  that  room.  He  remem- 
bered that  once,  in  that  room,  he  had  sworn  to  be  true 
— whatever  might  come ! 

To  the  long  French  window  came  a  woman,  her 
figure  silhouetted  against  the  bright  light  of  the  lamps. 
He  recognized  Kathleen.  She  was  looking  out  at 
him. 


374         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

She  opened  the  door,  gazing  gravely  at  the  bearded, 
sallow-faced  man  who  stared  at  her  strangely. 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  Mr.  McAdoo?  He's  out  of 
the  city  just  now." 

"Kathleen!"  he  cried  in  a  strange,  croaking  voice. 
"Don't  you  know  me  ?" 

"Paul!"  Doubt,  amazement,  joy,  voiced  themselves 
in  the  word.  And  welcome  shone  in  her  eyes  as  a 
harbor  light  to  the  storm-driven  seafarer. 

"Paul !    You  have  been  long  coming !" 

"I  bring  you  a  responsibility,  Kathleen."  He  held 
out  the  child. 

"We  welcome  responsibilities  here,"  she  answered 
happily.  She  held  out  her  arms  for  the  baby. 

"Wait!  She  is  my  sister's  child.  Her  father's 
name  I  don't  know.  She  has  no  right  to  be  in  the 
world.  She  is  cursed  from  her  birth.  Will  you  take 
her?" 

"All  the  more  for  that  reason !" 

She  took  the  child  from  him.  cuddling  it  close  to  her 
heart. 

"Come  in,  Paul!  Don't  stand  there!  Don't  you 
know  you  have  come  home?" 

He  followed  her  into  the  library.  The  warm,  cozy 
room  seemed  to  enfold  him,  to  welcome  him.  He  sank 
into  a  chair,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Kathleen,  I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  want  to  leave 
— to  run  away  out  into  the  loneliness  again — " 

She  petted  him  as  she  would  pet  a  child. 

"Do  you  think  we  will  let  you,  Paul  ?" 

"Do  you  think — he — will  let  me  stay?" 

"Have  you  any  doubt?"  She  faced  him  proudly. 
"Then  you  don't  know  our  Bob !" 


THE  PRODIGAL  375 

.  .  .  Since  the  day  when  the  first  prodigal  went 
out  into  that  far  country,  the  story  of  prodigals  has 
been  the  same ;  it  is  never  a  pretty  tale.  First  always 
comes  the  time  of  passion  unleashed,  when  life  glows 
red  in  the  glass.  If  there  be  a  thing  which  the  prodigal 
would  forget,  he  is  apt  to  drink  the  more  deeply.  But 
always  comes  the  time  when  the  glass  is  empty,  when 
his  eyes  turn  homeward.  Not  cowardice  but  courage 
sets  his  feet  in  the  pathway  of  his  eyes.  There  have 
been  prodigals  who  did  not  return;  they  have  been 
the  cowards. 

"It  wasn't  easy,  Kathleen — I  was  so  ashamed — but 
it  was  very  lonely." 

"But  all  that  is  ended,  Paul." 

Sometimes  life  throws  the  prodigal  a  line.  In 
Paul's  case  the  line  was  his  sister,  another  astray  under 
the  curse  of  inherited  temperament,  whom  he  had 
found  dying  and  hugging  to  her  heart  a  child  of  pas- 
sion. 

"She  died.  'But  I  made  those  last  weeks  easier  for 
her,  I  think.  That  should  count  for  something — do 
you  think  so,  Kathleen?" 

"That  should  count  for  a  great  deal,  Paul." 

"If  only  I  could  be  of  some  use  to  him!  I'd  like  to 
be."  The  humility  sat  strangely  on  Paul. 

"Ah !  I  see  you  don't  understand.  He  needs  all  the 
help  all  of  us  can  give.  For  William  Murchell  is  dying 
— and  Bob  must  take  his  place." 

"He  has  risen  high — I  am  glad!"  And  she  saw 
that  he  was  sincere. 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  closing.  The 
friendly  room  seemed  to  caress  him.  He  was  very 
tired;  it  had  been  long  since  he  had  known  rest. 


376         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

He  tried  to  realize  that  the  aimless,  lonely  wanderings, 
the  long  journey,  were  ended,  that  he  had  come  home. 
.  .  .  Then  he  heard  once  more  the  chance  words  of 
his  fellow-passenger  on  the  train,  "They're  turning 
their  guns  on  him  already  .  .  .  revived  that  old 
nomination  story."  He  sat  up  suddenly,  with  a  des- 
pairing cry : 

"Kathleen,  it's  not  possible!  I  can't  stay.  I  can't 
help  him.  I  can  only  hurt  him.  Don't  you  see,  I'll 
be  a  reminder,  to  him  and  to  every  one,  of  what  must 
be  forgotten — that  thing — his  shame !" 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  she  cried.  "What 
others  think  doesn't  count.  He  has  never  denied  it. 
Partly,  I  think,  because  he  wouldn't  shame  you  before 
the  people.  As  for  him — it  wasn't  his  shame.  He 
wasn't  guilty." 

"He — wasn't — guilty !" 

Then  to  the  bewildered  Paul  she  told  the  story  of 
the  convention  as  she  had  had  it  from  Haggin. 

It  was  long  before  he  answered.  He  lay  back  in 
his  chair  once  more.  His  hands  and  face  twitched  con- 
tinuously; evidently  his  nerves  were  gone.  She  did 
not  speak  to  him.  It  was  not  easy,  the  thing  required 
of  him. 

At  last  he  opened  his  eyes.  "It's  the  only  thing  to 
"do." 

She  guessed  what  was  in  his  mind.  "He  would 
never  ask  it,  Paul." 

"Let  us  call  Haggin  and  do  it.  Now — to-night — 
while  my  courage  lasts." 

Carrying  the  baby  she  left  him  alone  in  the  library. 
When  she  returned,  after  many  minutes,  she  had  left 
the  child  asleep  in  the  motherly  arms  of  Norah. 


THE  PRODIGAL  377 

Paul  was  lying  in  the  chair,  in  the  same  attitude  as 
when  she  had  left  him,  his  eyes  closed.  So  still  was  he, 
she  thought  for  a  moment  that  he  had  fallen  asleep. 
She  saw  the  forlorn  wreck  his  vice  had  left,  and  her 
heart  bled  for  him. 

But  he  was  not  asleep.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  up  at  her  questioningly. 

"They  are  coming  now,"  she  answered  the  ques- 
tion. Then  she  added  abruptly,  almost  sharply,  "Paul, 
it's  only  fair  to  you  to  tell  you  that — that  Bob  and  Mrs. 
Gilbert — "  She  stopped  as  abruptly  as  she  had  begun. 

He  made  np  answer,  and  after  a  while  she  continued, 
gently : 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  they  shouldn't  be  happy 
\ — as  men  and  women  want  to  be  happy,  Paul  ?" 

Again  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  answered,  in 
a  voice  that  was  very  tired,  "There  is  no  reason.  All 
that  is  dead — it  has  no  right  to  live,  Kathleen." 

In  her  heart  she  was  crying  jealously  to  her  secret, 
"It's  the  last  thing  I  can  do  for  him !"  Aloud  she  said : 

"You  must  tell  him  that,  too." 

He  did  not  notice  that  her  voice  was  sharp  and  con- 
strained. He  was  watching  the  fires  of  a  real  suffer- 
ing, burning  out  the  last  vestige  of  the  self  that  had 
been  Paul  Remington. 

Many  years  before,  Kathleen  Flinn  had  assumed  a 
responsibility ;  and  that  had  been  fulfilled.  That  night 
she  assumed  another — two,  to  be  accurate.  Perhaps 
she  needed  them  for  her  happiness. 

As  for  Paul — when  Bob  came  home,  the  two  men 
met  quietly.  What  was  said  then  need  not  be  set  down 
here,  but  a  new  footing  was  established;  thereafter 


378         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

many  things  were  ignored  by  them.  Paul  went  on  the 
staff  of  Bob's  newspaper.  The  Bugle's  editorials  are 
often  quoted  in  other  newspapers  of  note;  many  have 
tried  to  imitate  them  in  vain,  perhaps  because  they 
breathe  a  spirit  that  can  not  be  simulated  convincingly. 
He  is  no  longer  a  public  figure  in  the  Steel  City.  Few 
now  remember  his  sensational  disavowal  of  McAdoo, 
fewer  still  his  equally  sensational  amende.  Sometimes 
there  have  been  struggles  with  a  burning  appetite.  At 
such  times  he  has  fled  to  Kathleen;  he  tells  her  it  is 
she  who  has  conquered. 

Both  Kathleen  and  Paul  are  happy.    At  least,  they 
have  achieved  content. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  FALLING  OF  THE  MANTLE 

THE  train  that  whirled  Paul  toward  the  Steel  City 
was  passed  by  another  bearing  Mayor  McAdoo  to 
the  capital.  Bob  knew  that  he  was  mounting  to  a  great 
climax  in  his  life;  a  sense  of  responsibility  weighed 
heavily  upon  him.  He  was  hastening  to  the  death- 
bed of  a  man  who  had  come  very  close  to  him. 

Bob  saw  much  of  Murchell  during  the  two  years 
following  the  Steel  City  mayoralty  election.  Saw 
and  learned  much.  He  came  to  feel  a  mighty  admira- 
tion and  affection  for  the  great  general  who  had  created 
a  new  political  era,  who  had  shackled  a  nation  to  the 
service  of  a  vast,  voracious  system,  who  had  lifted  at 
least  one  nonentity  to  the  president's  chair,  and  who 
in  the  last  years  of  his  life  was  struggling  to  undo  the 
work  of  his  prime.  But  far  more  than  the  marvelous 
strategy  or  the  sure  knowledge  of  men,  far  more  even 
than  the  heroic  fortitude  under  intense  physical  suffer- 
ing, did  the  man's  patience  in  repentance  startle  Bob. 

"When  a  man  reaches  his  three  score  years  and  ten," 
Murchell  said  to  him  one  day,  "he  has  learned  that  the 
evil  or  good  a  man  does  concerns  himself  least  of  all. 
The  balance  must  remain  heavily  against  me.  But 
my  interest  in  my  work  concerns  the  world  not  at  all. 

379 


380         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

It  is  not  affected  by  my  need  to  put  my  house  in 
order,  but  only  by  the  work  itself.  So  I  must  not  think 
of  my  house,  but  only  of  the  work.  I  must  strive,  not 
to  atone,  but  to  make  the  way  ready  for  other  men  who 
will  undo  what  I  have  done." 

Before  this  broad  humanity  Bob  sat  ashamed.  Such 
heights  were  as  yet  beyond  his  reach.  "What  are  you 
in  God's  scheme  of  things  that  your  punishment  should 
be  so  important?"  Kathleen  had  challenged  him,  and 
had  opened  his  eyes  to  a  fault.  Murchell's  lofty  self- 
ignoring  gave  him  an  example  that  he  strove  to  emu- 
late. 

Many  other  things,  of  less  abstract  kind,  he  learned 
from  the  master.  Murchell  revealed  to  him  the  secret, 
intricate  inner  workings  of  the  vast  machine  that 
gripped  the  state  as  in  a  vise.  Often  Bob  was  as- 
tounded, seeing  of  what  seemingly  impossible  material, 
from  what  discordant  interests,  Murchell  had  pieced 
together  the  organization  whose  function  was  to  re- 
deem the  state.  It  was  not  all  pretty.  More  than  once 
he  saw  rebellious  bosses  enter  the  presence  of  the  mas- 
ter, to  leave  shaking,  stunned  by  the  knowledge  that 
they  were  inextricably  in  the  power  of  a  man  who 
seemed  to  know  everything.  Not  so  often,  because  it 
was  not  so  often  necessary,  he  saw  sudden,  dire  punish- 
ment ruthlessly  let  fall  upon  rebels  who  would  not 
listen  to  reason.  Many  things  Murchell  and  Bob  did 
of  which  they  said  naught  to  the  gentle  Dunmeade, 
that  they  might  save  his  heart  from  burning. 

Gradually  Bob  came  to  understand  that  he  had  not 
(diagnosed  the  situation  correctly.  He  saw  why  Mur- 
chell and  Dunmeade,  though  fighting  against  the  most 
powerful  combination  pf  capital,  had  been  able  to  pre- 


FALLING  OF  THE  MANTLE    381 

vail — because  Murchell  had  been  master  indeed.  Even 
when  he  used  his  power  in  the  service  of  the  interests, 
he  had  never  let  go  one  jot  or  tittle  of  the  power. 
While  he  served  them,  they  had  not  sought  to  under- 
mine him.  When  he  forsook  their  service,  they  were 
helpless  to  combat  him.  Gradually  Bob  came  to 
understand,  too,  why  the  secrets  and  sources  of  Mur- 
chell's  power  were  revealed  to  him.  He  was  being  pre- 
pared to  take  Murchell's  place.  Upon  him,  not  upon 
Dunmeade,  the  master's  mantle  was  to  fall. 

And  now  Murchell  was  dying. 

Bob  knew,  as  the  train  bore  him  swiftly  to  the  east, 
that  he  was  going  to  assume  that  mantle. 

Years  before,  "I  will  be  master  of  the  state  before 
I  die !"  Ambition  had  cried. 

Now  he  said,  "I  am  not  yet  forty.  And  I  am  master 
of  the  state !" 

Master  of  the  state!  He  had  dreamed  of  power. 
Now  power,  tremendous,  far-reaching,  almost  un- 
limited power,  would  be  his,  if  he  could  retain  what 
Murchell  would  place  in  his  hands.  If  he  could  retain 
it!  The  old  confidence  in  his  strength  came  to  him. 
Not  the  old  lust  of  battle,  but  a  steady,  rising  courage 
and  a  burning  resolve  throbbed  in  his  heart. 

"I  can.  I  will!"  His  teeth  clenched,  his  muscles 
tightened  in  the  stress  of  his  determination. 

Not  as  he  had  dreamed  it,  came  power.  Nor  was  he 
the  man  who  had  dreamed.  With  power  its  responsi- 
bilities, its  trust !  He  who  had  thrilled  at  the  thought 
of  power,  now  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  its  meaning. 
He  had  felt  the  Force  breaking  down  the  self  within 
him,  molding  him  to  its  purpose.  Now  he  saw  that 
purpose. 


382         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"I  will  be  true  to  my  trust.  I  will  use  my  power  for 
the  good  of  this  people.  So  help  me  God !" 

His  words  were  a  prayer,  not  an  oath.  There  was 
no  exultation  in  his  heart,  neither  was  there  humility. 
Self  was  forgotten.  His  task  loomed  large  before  him, 
self -obliterating,  filling  his  horizon. 

While  his  mind,  running  ahead  into  the  years  to 
come,  was  still  visualizing  the  battle  before  him,  his 
approach  to  the  capital  was  announced  by  the  brake- 
man. 

Hastily  detaching  himself  with  a  bruskness  that 
somehow  did  not  offend — they  thought  he  must  be 
very  busy  or  he  would  not  thus  part  with  them — from 
the  group  of  unknown  admirers  on  the  platform  who 
insisted  on  shaking  hands  and  wishing  him  good  luck, 
Bob  hurried  toward  the  governor's  mansion. 

An  obsequious  man-servant,  wearing  the  funereal 
air  of  one  who  knows  that  a  liberal  patron  is  about  to 
depart  this  life,  opened  the  door  to  him.  In  the  library 
Some  one  was  playing  the  piano,  very  softly,  the 
gentle,  soothing  chords  lingering  in  the  air.  Thither 
the  servant  showed  Bob. 

On  the  threshold  Bob  halted  sharply.  Death,  power, 
tattle,  were  in  an  instant  swept  from  his  mind. 
His  heart  leaped  convulsively.  .  .  . 

The  player's  back  was  toward  him.  She  did  not 
notice  his  entrance.  He  did  not  move,  lest  he  might 
disturb  her.  Then  her  voice  rose,  full  and  clear  and 
plaintive,  in  a  song  that  not  all  the  street  pianos  in  the 
world  can  rob  of  its  appeal.  Bob  listened  in  rapt 
attention.  Once  before  he  had  heard  her  sing  that 
song,  on  the  night  when,  on  that  very  spot,  he  had 
dealt  her  the  crudest  blow  a  man  could  give  a  woman. 


At  the  last  line  her  voice  shook  slightly,  once  it  fal- 
tered. 

".     .     .     To  kiss  the  Cross,  sweetheart,  to  kiss  the 
Cross!" 

The  last  long,  quivering  note  died  away.  She 
turned  and  arose  to  face  him.  For  a  long  minute 
they  regarded  each  other  unwaveringly.  It  had  been 
two  years  and  more  since  they  had  met,  these  two 
whose  lives  had  so  strangely  crossed.  They  had  been 
constantly  in  each  other's  minds,  in  each  other's  hearts. 
Each  saw  that  the  years  had  wrought  changes  in  the 
other. 

Every  time  he  had  seen  her,  her  beauty  had  struck 
him  anew;  it  was  so  different  from  that  of  the  few 
women  he  knew.  But  he  had  loved  best  to  remember 
her  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  when  she  had  come  to 
him  in  the  days  of  his  sickness.  How  often,  during  the 
long  months,  in  the  secrecy  of  his  room  he  had  opened 
the  book  of  his  memory  to  look  upon  her  standing 
there  before  him,  her  startled  eyes  answering  the  love 
in  his!  Now,  in  this  sudden  meeting,  the  picture  he 
had  carried  seemed  to  him  woefully  inadequate.  She 
was  even  more  slender  than  before,  yet  less  fragile. 
Her  face  was  marked  by  a  new  gentleness,  a  new  pa- 
tience, and  withal  a  new  strength,  that  made  her,  to 
Bob's  eyes,  beautiful  beyond  dreams. 

She,  too,  saw  a  change.  He  was  the  same  stalwart 
figure  as  before,  yet  a  slight  stoop  had  come  into  the 
big  shoulders.  Streaks  of  gray  were  in  his  hair.  The 
thin,  strongly  marked,  ascetic  face  was  the  same,  and 
yet  not  the  same;  the  bold  arrogance,  the  look  of  the 


384         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

all-conquering  Viking,  was  gone.  In  its  place  had 
come  the  quiet,  matured  strength  of  the  man  who  has 
proved  himself,  and  the  great  kindliness  of  a  strong 
man  who  has  suffered  without  hardening. 

Under  his  steady  regard  she  trembled.  She  tried  to 
take  her  eyes  from  his,  but  could  not.  She  knew  that 
in  that  moment  of  silence  they  were  saying  what  must 
not  be  said.  She  tried  to  speak,  to  break  the  spell. 

"I  was  singing  for  him — he  asked  me,"  she  said 
unsteadily. 

"I  heard  you  sing  that  song  for  him  once  before,  the 
night  when  I — "  He  could  not  go  on. 

"All  that  is  forgotten,  Mr.  McAdoo." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "It  can  never  be  for- 
gotten, Mrs.  Gilbert.  Every  night  I  dream  of  it,"  he 
answered  sadly. 

"It  tore  my  heart  that  night,  your  singing."  The 
words  fell  slowly.  "I  knew  that  these  kind  people  had 
something  I  had  not.  They  had  learned  the  lesson. 
But  I,  in  my  ignorance,  could  not  see  how  one  could 
learn  to  kiss  one's  cross." 

"Ah!"  she  answered  gently.  "I  knew  that  some- 
thing was  hurting  you  that  night.  Otherwise — " 

"Otherwise  I  should  not  have  been  so  unspeakably 
brutal  to  you?"  he  interrupted  forcefully.  "You  are 
generous  to  find  an  excuse  for  me.  But  that  is  not 
true.  A  man  such  as  I  was  is  apt  to  do  such  things, 
Mrs.  Gilbert." 

"A  man  such  as  you  are  is  apt  to  be  too  harsh  with 
himself,  Mr.  McAdoo.  And,"  she  could  not  help  the 
hint  of  pride  in  her  voice,  "I  have  heard  fine  things 
of  you.  You  have  learned  to  kiss  the  cross,  I  think." 

Again  he  shook  his  head.    "I  fear  not.    I  have  not 


FALLING  OF  THE  MANTLE    385 

grown  so  far  yet.  And,"  his  voice  was  losing  its 
steadiness,  "seeing  you  here,  I — I  realize  how  heavy 
my  cross  has  become." 

He  had  need  of  all  his  strength  to  repress  the  words 
that  flooded  to  his  lips.  His  body  became  rigid  with 
the  effort.  Yet  his  eyes,  eloquent  and  compelling,  held 
hers,  crying  out  that  she  was  his — his!  Her  own, 
helpless  to  deny  him,  answered.  And  she  knew  that  it 
was  true,  that  from  the  very  beginning  of  things  the 
Force,  which  had  so  strangely  brought  them  together, 
had  intended  them  to  be  of  one  piece.  She  knew  that 
from  the  day  in  the  mills,  when  he  had  so  roughly  set 
her  out  of  the  way  and  then  saved  her  life,  he  had 
taken  possession  of  her  soul.  She  knew  why  she  had 
never  been  able  to  forget  that  scene  in  the  mills,  knew 
the  meaning  of  the  restlessness  and  discontent  with 
other  men  that  had  taken  hold  of  her;  in  her  heart 
had  sprung  up  an  ideal  of  sure,  steadfast  strength  that 
could  be  trusted  to  the  uttermost  and,  for  her,  he  alone 
could  fill  that  ideal.  He  might  cruelly  hurt  her — he 
had  cruelly  hurt  her — yet  she  could  not  free  herself 
from  the  bond  that  held  them,  could  never  desire  re- 
lease. For  so  do  strong  men  and  women  love.  Years 
might  pass,  they  might  never  meet  again,  yet  it  would 
always  be  the  same.  Across  the  years  and  the  dis- 
tances the  bond  would  hold. 

Yet  between  them  stood  the  barrier  that  could  not 
be  ignored.  Fearing,  she  summoned  her  defenses 
against  the  love  that  was  overcoming. 

"Mr.  McAdoo,  have  you  heard  from  him?" 

The  compelling  fire  in  his  eyes  died  down.  In  its 
place  came  a  look  that  made  her  heart  bleed,  the  look 
of  a  man  who  suffers  without  hope  of  reprieve. 


386         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

He  passed  his  hand  in  a  hopeless  gesture  across  his 
eyes.  "I  had  forgotten — that.  I  have  heard  nothing. 
I  have  no  hope  of  finding  him.  I'm  afraid  something 
has  happened — " 

"No,  no!  You  mustn't  say  that.  We  mustn't  lose 
hope  of  finding  him  and  saving  him  from  himself. 
Surely — surely — nothing  can  have  happened." 

He  shook  his  head  hopelessly,  answering  nothing. 
To  both  of  them,  in  that  moment,  the  bitter  cup 
seemed  overflowing.  Their  eyes  at  last  turned  away, 
each  fearing  to  look  upon  the  other's  suffering.  .  .  . 

"Shall  we  go  up  to  him?"  she  said.  "He  wants  to  see 
you  before  he  dies.  He  is  waiting  for  you." 

"Yes.    I — I  had  forgotten  why  I  am  here." 

Together,  in  silence  they  mounted  the  stairs  to  the 
chamber  of  death. 

That  night  William  Murchell  died. 

'And  Robert  McAdoo  reigned  in  his  stead. 

Alone  in  the  big,  old  library  with  its  fragrance  of 
memories,  Bob  watched  the  night  through,  bracing  his 
soul  for  the  struggle  that  was  coming.  And  the 
struggle,  he  knew,  must  be  not  only  with  the  people's 
enemies,  but  with  himself,  too.  For  his  temptation 
pressed  him  hard,  tormenting  him  with  the  vision  of 
the  happiness  that  might  be  his  if  the  soul  of  the  new 
McAdoo  would  retreat  but  one  step — so  little,  but  so 
.vital  to  him — from  its  purpose.  Until  the  morning, 
as  did  Jacob,  Bob  wrestled  with  his  soul,  hearing  al- 
ways the  last  words  of  the  man  who  had  died,  "Your 
people.  .  .  .  You  must  be  true !" 

And  his  soul's  answer,  "I  must  be  true — in  all — or 
in  nothing!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    BEGINNING   OF   THE   END 

IT  was  long  before  sleep  came  to  any  in  the  house 
of  death  that  night.  To  Eleanor  it  did  not  come 
until  the  first  streak  of  gray  showed  in  the  east.  Then 
she  fell  into  a  light,  dreamful  slumber  that  lasted  only 
until  broad  daylight  had  come.  She  was  awakened 
by  the  sun  shining  into  her  eyes ;  through  the  window 
she  could  see  the  glorious  sky  of  a  clear  spring  morn- 
ing. The  fleeting  fragrance  of  the  season,  gathered  up 
by  the  breeze  in  its  wanderings  over  a  hundred  leagues 
of  budding  life,  came  to  her.  It  was  the  mating  time  ; 
from  without  came  the  blithe  call  of  bird  to  mate.  She 
stirred  contentedly.  It  was  the  first  night  she  and 
'Bob  McAdoo  had  passed  under  the  same  roof.  The 
thought  was  like  a  caress. 

She  arose  and  went  to  her  bath,  to  emerge  fresh  and 
glowing.  Slowly  she  set  about  dressing  herself. 
There  was  death  in  that  house,  death  with  its  sad- 
ness if  without  its  bitterness.  Yet  she  could  not  re- 
press a  feeling  of  buoyancy,  of  life. 

She  went  down-stairs  to  find  the  hall  deserted  by  all 
save  the  sleepy  man-servant. 

"Is  no  one  down  ?"  she  asked  him. 

"Mr.  McAdoo,  madam,"  he  answered,  struggling 

387 


388 

manfully  to  stifle  a  yawn.  "Beg  pardon,  madam. 
He's  been  out  these  two  hours.  Went  to  send  a  tele- 
gram, he  said." 

She  passed  on  out  to  the  wide,  vine-covered  veran- 
da. There  she  stood,  drawing  in  deep  breaths  of  the 
pure  spring  air.  The  cool  breeze  played  upon  her  up- 
lifted face.  Once  more  the  mingled  odors  of  spring 
were  borne  to  her  grateful  senses.  The  physical  de- 
light of  the  healthy  in  a  clear  new  day  pervaded  her. 
It  was  easy  to  forget  death  for  the  moment ;  there  was 
no  unhappiness,  nothing  but  beauty  and  life,  in  the 
spirit  of  the  morning. 

Suddenly  she  caught  herself,  breathing  a  little 
prayer. 

"Let  me  not  be  too  happy !  Let  me  not  forget  that 
there  is  a  to-morrow !'' 

From  down  the  street  came  the  clang  of  swift  foot- 
steps. Her  heart  beat  time  to  the  stride;  she  knew 
who  the  pedestrian  was. 

He  halted  close  to  her.  Once  again  he  caught  her  in 
that  grip  of  the  eyes  from  which  she  could  not  free 
herself.  Both  knew  that  no  longer  might  they  deny 
.words  to  the  love  burning  in  their  hearts  and  from 
Itheir  eyes. 

"You  are  like  no  woman  I  have  known,"  he  said 
slowly. 

"Yet  you  have  known  none  but  good  women." 

He  shook  his  head  proudly.  "That  is  not  the  differ- 
ence." 

"I  have  given  you  little  reason  to  think  me  good," 
she  said  sadly. 

"You  are  good;  I  know  that.     But  were  you  the 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  END      389 

wickedest  woman  in  ithe  world,  still  you  would  be  the 
one  woman  to  me.  Eleanor!  Eleanor!"  he  breathed. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "you  must  not!  We  dare  not — " 

"How  I  love  you!" 

"Ah !"  She  drew  a  long-,  shuddering-  breath.  Then 
her  head  went  back  proudly.  "Why  not?  Why  may 
our  lips  not  say  what  our  hearts  and  eyes  have  said — 
since  we  ask  nothing?  I  love  you.  I  always  shall.  I 
can't  help  it." 

"Do  you  want  to  help  it?" 

"See!" 

She  stepped  down  one  stair,  where  her  face  was  on 
a  level  with  his.  Fully  and  freely  she  gave  him  of  her 
eyes,  that  through  them  he  might  see  down  into  her 
heart,  afire  with  the  love  surpassing,  that  asked  noth- 
ing, that  was  content  with  loving. 

"Eleanor!   Eleanor!"  he  breathed  again. 

"Yes."  She  met  his  eyes  steadily,  fearlessly.  "Even 
though  we  may  never  know  the  happiness  of  sharing 
one  life,  I  shall  always  be — yours — and  you  mine. 
Life  can't  take  that  from  us." 

He  turned  away  in  the  anguish  of  temptation.  His 
big  body  trembled.  His  voice  was  hoarse,  as  he  spoke. 

"I  know  now  why  men  give  up  honor  for  a  woman. 
Do  you  know  how  easy  it  would  be  for  me  to  throw 
everything  else  overboard  and  seek  happiness  with  just 
you — in  spite  of  everything — even  now  ?" 

"Look  at  me !"  Slowly  he  turned  once  more  to  meet 
her  eyes.  "You  will  not  tempt  me,  will  you  ?  You  are 
stronger  than  I ;  you  mustn't  let  me  be  weak.  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know?  How  often  during  the  last  two 
years  I  have  prayed  that  you  might  be  weak  enough  to 
come  to  me,  and  that  I  might  be  weak  enough  to  yield. 


390         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

But  we  must  not.  We  can  not.  It  wouldn't  be  as  easy 
as  it  seems  now.  It  would  be  a  cowardly  happiness.  It 
wouldn't  be  clean.  Until  he  is  found  and  we 
know  he  is  reclaimed,  we  could  never  be  really 
happy,  there  would  always  be  a  stain  on  our  love. 
We  know  what  selfishness  brings.  .  .  .  You 
belong  to  the  people  of  this  state.  Our  false  happi- 
ness would  cripple  you,  because  you  would  always 
have  the  knowledge  that  you  hadn't  been  true  to  your- 
self. And  if  you  aren't  true  to  yourself,  how  can  you 
be  true  to  your  trust  ?  .  .  .  I  want  it — I  need  it — 
more  than  you  do.  But  I — I  care  for  you  too  much 
ever  to  want  you  to  be  untrue  to  the  best  in  you  on  my 
account.  You  won't  tempt  me,  will  you  ?"  she  pleaded, 
her  voice  growing  more  and  more  unsteady.  "Because 
I — I  am  so  happy  in  just  being  near  you — when  I  am 
with  you  something  keeps  pulling,  pulling  me  to  you — 
I  am  almost  past  the  resisting  point.  Don't  tempt  me 
— yet  I  want  you  to  tempt  me — you  must  be  strong  for 
both  of  us. 

"And  remember,"  she  went  on,  trying  to  be  strong, 
"remember  that  it  is  harder  for  me  than  for  you.  To- 
morrow, after  the  funeral,  I  go  back  to  my  little  work, 
which,  after  all,  is  only  a  scanty  refuge.  While  you 
go  on  to  your  great  task  that  often  will  shut  me  out  of 
your  mind  and  heart.  It  will  always  be  that — your 
work  always  first,  I  always  second." 

"No !"  he  said  roughly.  "It  will  never  be  that.  You 
are  first — you  always  shall  be." 

"Ah!  I  wanted  you  to  say  that.  But  you  mustn't. 
And  it  mustn't  be  true.  That  is  the  selfish  part  of  my 
love  I  must  always  fight  to  keep  down — even  if — even 
if  we  must  not  always  be  apart.  You  mustn't  let  me  be 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  END      3911 

selfish.  If  you  place  me  first,  if  you  don't  sacrifice  me 
when  it  is  right,  you  can't  be  true  to  yourself,  you 
won't  be — my  man.  .  .  .  You  are  so  strong. 
.  .  .  You  mustn't  come  to  weakness  through  me." 

"Yet  you  say  you  are  not  good !"  he  cried. 

The  vine-wreathed  veranda  hid  them  from  the 
world.  She  went  to  a  chair,  fell  into  it  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  Harsh,  dry  sobs  shook  her. 

Bob  was  helpless  to  comfort  her.  Awkwardly,  as 
one  unused  to  caress,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  let  it  rest 
upon  her  hair.  The  unaccustomed  touch  sent  fire  rac- 
ing through  his  veins. 

"Eleanor!"  he  murmured  hoarsely. 

She  caught  his  big  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  cheek. 
"I  am  not  good.  I  am  only  weak  and  shameless.  You 
must  be  strong  ...  or  take  me." 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  both  her  hands  in 
his  firm,  strong  clasp. 

"Dear!"  How  strangely  the  word  dwelt  upon  his 
lips!  "Dear,  look  at  me.  .  .  .  Two  years  ago  I 
found  myself.  The  people  of  my  city  trusted  me,  when, 
they  would  have  been  justified  in  crushing  me." 

"But  you  weren't  guilty.    Katherine  has  told  me." 

"I  wasn't  directly  responsible  for  the  crime  that  was 
done.  But  I  don't  hide  behind  that.  It  was  done  for 
me — and  I  accepted  the  benefit.  But  my  people  didn't 
know  it.  Nevertheless,  they  trusted  me.  They  have 
helped  me  to  grow  stronger,  at  home  and  over  the 
state.  The  good  people  here,  they  have  trusted  me  and 
strengthened  me.  In  a  few  weeks  I  am  to  be  nomi- 
nated for  governor.  I  can  be  elected,  I  think.  Great 
power  has  been  placed  in  my  hands.  I  am  under  the 
most  sacred  obligations  to  the  people  of  this  state,  to- 


392         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

John  Dunmeade,  to  him  who  is  dead.  I  can  do  much. 
.  .  .  These  two  years  I  have  tried  to  atone.  I  have 
tried  to  kill  the  ugly  self  that  ruled  me.  I  thought  I 
had  succeeded.  And  now  ...  I  find  I  have 
failed.  ...  I  am  ready,  at  your  word,  to  forget 
everything  but  myself  .  .  .  but  you!  .  .  . 
Listen!  You  must  know  what  that  means.  .  .  . 
,We  must  start  a  new  life  together.  The  wealth  that 
Murchell  has  left  me,  I  will  give  to  Dunmeade.  All 
the  knowledge  I  have  gained,  all  the  power  I  have 
won,  all  the  power  that  has  been  given  to  me,  for  a 
purpose  not  my  own,  must  be  thrown  aside.  All 
Murchell's  work  will  have  gone  for  nothing.  John 
Dunmeade,  left  alone,  will  be  beaten.  The  people  who 
have  trusted  me  will  be  helpless.  I  must  give  these 
things  up  because,  having  been  weak  once,  I  dare  not 
face  the  responsibility  of  weakness  in  power.  .  .  . 
It  would  be  easy.  Every  nerve  in  me  aches  to  do  it. 
If  you  say  the  word,  I  will  give  up  these  things  for 
you.  .  .  .  And  I  will  never  reproach  you,  never 
blame  you.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  questioningly.  While  he  was  speaking, 
her  eyes  had  not  left  his.  She  was  very  white. 

"My  answer  is — I  love  you !" 

"And  that  means — No?" 
K     "And  that  means — No !" 

Their  eyes  fell  away.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  looked  out  into  space.  Half  unconsciously,  she 
freed  one  hand  from  his  clasp  and  with  it  caressed  the 
backs  of  his  hands.  He  watched  the  gesture  sadly. 

After  a  while,  "We  need  each  other,  to  be  strong, 
<ion't  we?"  she  said  softly.  He  gave  no  answer. 

"...     I    am   afraid,"    she    went   on,    later,    ii) 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  END      393 

dreamy,  detached  phrases,  "I  am  afraid  to  hope.  .  .  . 
I  have  always  felt  that  he  would  return  and  thought 
that  with  his  coming  everything  would  oe  right  .  .  . 
Now  I  dare  not  hope.  .  .  .  All  at  once  it  is  deal 
— ah !  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  that !  .  .  .  We  are 
not  our  own.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  he  caught  her  hands  to  his  lips  and  covered 
them  with  rough,  passionate  kisses.  She  let  him. 

"We  are  not  our  own.  .  .  .  And  it  is  some- 
thing, O,  everything !  ...  to  know  that  we  have 
had  this  hour  .  .  .  with  its  bitterness  and  its  sweet- 
ness. .  .  .  And  to  know  that  we  have  been  strong. 
.  .  .  And  always  shall  be.  .  .  ." 

"Eleanor!  Eleanor!" 

"And  we  shall  always  be  together.  .  .  .  For  al- 
ways you  will  know  that  I  am  praying  for  you  .  .  . 
and  loving  you  ...  as  you  will  be  loving 
me.  .  .  ." 

The  temptation  flew  away  and  left  them,  if  not  at 
peace,  with  a  new  courage. 

Once  he  turned  to  her  and  cried,  "I  would  not  be 
without  this  love,  even  though  it  means  heartache !" 

"Nor  would  I.  ...  And  somehow — now — 
this  happiness  is  so  real,  so  wonderful  .  .  .  the 
heartache  so  far  away — so  impossible.  ...  I 
have  faith !" 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  FORCE 

SOMETIMES  the  two  on  the  veranda  spoke,  in 
low,  hushed  tones  they  had  not  used  even  at 
Murchell's  bedside:  broken,  detached  sentences — of 
what  they  could  not  have  told.  They  came  very  near 
to  each  other  in  that  hour.  .  .  . 

Up  the  street  tramped  a  figure,  still  powerful  if  a 
bit  too  large  of  girth,  with  the  rolling,  swaggering  gait 
that  misfortune  never  taught.  He  puffed  as  he  walked, 
his  wind  not  being  what  it  had  been  when  he  pom- 
meled the  great  Donnelly  to  a  draw.  Diamond  in  ring 
and  stud  cast  back  the  morning's  sunshine  jubilantly, 
his  red  face  beamed  with  good-will,  if  not  peace,  to  all ; 
and  why  not  ?  The  night  had  brought  him  no  sense  of 
personal  loss  and  he  dreamed  dreams  of  great  power 
and  lively  "scrapping."  That  the  power  was  to.be  an- 
other's diminished  the  primitive  ardor  of  his  gloating 
soul  no  whit.  And  if  the  struggle  was  to  be  in  a  great 
cause — why,  though  a  reformer  by  grace  of  his  chiefs 
conversion,  he  still  loved  righting  for  fighting's  sake. 

Bob  saw  him.  With  a  keen  pang  Eleanor  saw  Bob 
come  forth  from  his  dreaming  into  reality. 

"It's  Haggin.  Something's  wrong."  The  hushed, 
gentle  tone  had  given  place  to  the  crisp,  curt  voice  of 
the  man  of  affairs. 

394 


TRIUMPH  OF  THE  FORCE      393 

"Mornin',  Governor."  (For  a  year  Haggin,  confi- 
dent in  his  liege's  invincibility,  had  called  him  nothing- 
but  "Governor.")  "Special  brand  of  day  you've  or- 
dered, eh?"  His  eyes  wandered  uncomfortably  to- 
ward Bob's  companion. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Tom  ?" 

"Miss  Flinn  sent  me — " 

"Kathleen!    What's  wrong?    Is  Patrick— " 

"Naw !  Nuthin's  wrong.  Everything's  right.  Pat's 
all  right,  too,  except  that  he's  in  a  split  stick  whether 
to  hang  crape  on  his  buzzum  because  he's  dead,  or  fly; 
a  flag  because  you're  the  boss  now." 

Bob  smiled  sadly.    "We  may  all  be  sorry,  Tom." 

"Right !"  Haggin  answered,  sobering  instantly.  "He 
was  a  big  man.  But — you're  a  bigger." 

Bob  shook  his  head.  He  turned  to  Eleanor.  "Mrs. 
Gilbert,  I  want  to  introduce  one  of  my  best  friends.'*' 
With  a  woman's  quick  eye  for  details,  she  noted  his 
manner  as  he  introduced  Haggin  to  her,  so  simple,  so 
frank,  without  a  hint  of  the  patronage  many  men  affect 
in  similar  situations. 

Haggin's  hat  came  off  awkwardly;  his  red  face 
turned  purple. 

"Pleased  to  meet  ye,  ma'am,"  he  managed  to  stam- 
mer. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  which  Haggin  first  surveyed 
doubtfully,  then  took  gingerly  into  his  own  big  fist. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Haggin.  And  I 
think,  from  what  I've  heard,  you're  a  friend  worth 
having." 

Haggin  released  her  hand  and  began  to  fan  himself 
vigorously  with  his  derby,  although  the  morning  was 
pleasantly  cool. 


396         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"O,  we're  all  glad  enough  to  be  his  friends,  down 
our  way."  Haggin  grinned.  "It  pays.  Though," 
still  fanning  vigorously,  "that  ain't  the  only  reason. 
He's — he's  on  the  square.  There  ain't  many  men  I'd 
say  that  for — an'  he  knocked  me  out  once,  too."  The 
grin  returned. 

"Knocked  you  out?  I'm  afraid  I  don't  under- 
stand—" 

"Put  me  into  the  clear,"  Haggin  defined,  illustrating 
by  punching  himself  lightly  on  the  point  of  the  jaw. 

"Oh!    He  hit  you?    Hard?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  answered  soberly.  "He  hit  me 
awful  hard."  He  winked  ponderously  at  Bob. 

"But  he  was  generous  enough  to  forgive  me,"  Bob 
smiled. 

"I  had  to.  An'  I  ain't  ever  been  sorry  fer  it,  nei- 
ther." Haggin  returned  to  his  awkward  embarrass- 
ment. "He's  been  on  the  square  with  me  always." 

"Sit  down,  Tom,"  Bob  commanded.  "And  tell  us 
what  you  came  for.  Please  don't  go,"  he  said  to  Ele- 
anor. 

And  his  eyes  added,  "I  can't  bear  to  lose  these  min- 
utes with  you." 

Haggin  deposited  himself  in  a  chair  and  leaned  back 
comfortably.  "Pretty,  ain't  it?"  He  waved  his  hand 
toward  the  lawn.  "You'll  like  it  when  you  come  here 
next  term."  Then  he  added  casually,  "Paul  Reming- 
ton come  back  last  night." 

"Paul  Remington!"  cried  two  voices.  And  Haggin 
suddenly  became  aware  of  two  white,  strained  faces 
turned  toward  him. 

"He  has  come  home,"  Bob  repeated  slowly,  dazedly. 
"How?" 


397 

Haggin  shook  his  head.  "On  the  bum.  Too 
much — "  He  executed  a  gesture  that  was  intended  to 
indicate  the  act  of  taking  a  drink. 

"I've  been  afraid  of  that,"  Bob  muttered.    "Tell  us." 

"Well,  last  night,  Miss  Flinn  called  me  up  an'  told 
me  to  come  up  to  the  house  quick.  When  I  got  there, 
I  found  him.  Guess  I  was  kind  o'  rough  with  him. 
Asked  him  what  he  was  doing  there."  Haggin  grinned 
ruefully.  "Miss  Flinn  told  me  where  to  get  off  at. 
Said  where  should  he  go  but  to  his  friends.  I  guess 
you'll  back  that  up?" 

"Yes!    Goon." 

"I'm  glad  o'  that.  I  always  did  like  him — he  was 
such  a  nervy,  good-lookin'  cuss.  An'  I  always  had  a 
notion  they  got  him  foul  on  that  convention  business 
somehow."  Bob  heard  Eleanor  draw  a  quick,  gasping 
breath.  Impulsively  he  put  out  his  hand  and  let  it  rest 
on  hers  for  a  moment.  Haggin  discreetly  looked  the 
other  way. 

"He  had  a  kid  with  him — his  sister's — a  little  girl 
that — ahem ! — that  oughtn't  to  a'  been  born.  It  seems 
as  he'd  been  hittin'  it  up  gay,  when  he  run  into  his  sis- 
ter. She  was  sick  an'  broke,  an'  he  took  care  o'  her  till 
she  died.  Then  he  took  care  o'  the  kid  a  while.  An' 
then,  I  guess,  he  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer,  so  he 
brought  her  over  to  Miss  Flinn." 

"Thank  God !"  breathed  Eleanor. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  Haggin  agreed  politely.  "I  didn't 
know  this  till  afterwerds.  It  made  me  feel  sort  o' 
cheap.  I  don't  know  as  I  could  a'  come  back,  if  I'd 
been  in  the  same  place  an'  constitooted  the  same.  He 
ain't  all  piker,  Governor.  You  think  so  ?" 

"I  know  he  isn't,  man." 


398         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Guess  he  intended  to  stay,  if  he  could  square  things 
with  you.  But  on  the  train  he  heard  some  feller  say 
somethin'  that  made  him  think  he'd  be  in  your  way  if 
he  stayed.  Thought  his  comin'  back'd  remind  people 
of  that  Hemenway  business.  But  when  Miss  Flinn 
told  him  it  was  me — not  you — was  Angel  of  Charity 
to  them  delegates,  that  changed  his  mind  some.  That's 
why  they  sent  for  me. 

.  "He  never  says  a  word  while  I'm  rough-housin' 
him.  When  I  got  through,  he  says,  sharp,  'Haggin, 
Miss  Flinn  tells  me  you  bribed  those  delegates.' 
'That's  straight,'  says  I.  'What  are  you  goin'  to  do 
about  it?'  He  never  batted  an  eye — he  ain't  a  four- 
flusher,  Governor.  'There's  just  one  thing  to  do,'  he 
says.  An'  we  done  it!" 

Haggin  straightened  up  triumphantly. 

"There  won't  be  so  much  talk  about  that  convention 
business  now,  I  guess.  I  took  him  to  a  reporter  an'  he 
give  anuther  interview,  tellin'  all  about  that  convention 
an'  about  how  you  took  the  blame  that  b' longed  to  vie. 
It's  a  bully  story.  The  reporter  got  it  straight  an' 
knew  how  to  write  it  up.  It's  in  all  the  mornin'  papers. 
Here  it  is." 

He  pulled  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and  flour- 
ished it  before  Bob's  amazed  eyes.  "I  told  you  I'd 
get  that  published  straight  before  I  was  through,"  he 
chuckled. 

"And  then?"  Eleanor  suggested.  Haggin  had  al- 
most forgotten  her  in  his  interest  in  his  tale.  Now  he 
noticed  tears  in  her  eyes ;  he  wondered  why. 

"When  we  got  back  to  the  house,  Miss  Flinn  asked 
him,  'Will  you  stay  now,  Paul  ?'  He  didn't  say  nuthin' 
fer  a  while.  Then  he  straightened  up  an'  said,  'If  Bob 


TRIUMPH  OF  THE  FORCE      399 

will  let  me.'  These  was  his  very  words.  You'll  let 
him,  won't  you,  Governor?"  Haggin  was  very  ear- 
nest. "He's  been  up  against  a  tough  game,  an'  I  al- 
ways did  like  him  an' — if  you'd  seen  him,  you'd  know. 
He'll  go  to  hell  straight,  if  you  don't  keep  hold  of  him. 
I  ain't  a  preacher,  but — " 

Bob  held  out  his  hand.    Haggin  took  it. 

Haggin  turned  to  Eleanor.  "Didn't  I  say  he's  on 
the  square?  He's  my  kind  o'  man!" 

Then  Haggin  noted  a  singular  phenomenon.  Nei- 
ther Eleanor  nor  Bob  were  paying  the  least  attention 
to  his  words.  They  were  both  standing,  each  lost  in 
the  other's  eyes.  He  shifted  uncomfortably  in  his 
chair,  then  arose,  coughing  loudly. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin'.  If  you're  goin'  down 
to  see  him,  Governor,  I'll  meet  you  at  the  'leven- forty." 

"At  the  eleven- forty — "  Bob  mumbled  mechanically. 
"O,  yes,  of  course,  the  eleven- forty.  I'll  be  there, 
Tom." 

"Well — why,  bless  me!  I  nearly  fergot  Before  I 
left — I  knew  you'd  want  to  hear  about  it  all  an'  I  told 
'em  I  was  comin'  up  here.  An'  Miss  Flinn  said  to  him, 
'Paul,  do  you  know  Mrs.  Gilbert  is  with  the  Dun- 
meades  now?'  I  was  sorry  fer  him.  It  had  been  a 
tough  night  fer  him  an'  he  was  tired  an'  white  as  a 
ghost.  He  seemed  to  think  a  bit,  then  he  said  to  me, 
'Tell  Bob  to  tell  Mrs.  Gilbert  that  there  is  no  reason 
in  the  world — none  at  all — why  I  should  stand  between 
her  and  happiness.  She  will  understand.'  He  made 
me  say  it  over  again.  Those  was  his  very  words. 
'There  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why  I  should  stand 
between  her  and  happiness.'  " 

Once  more  Haggin  noted  that  strange  forgetfulness 


400         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

i 

of  his  presence.    'And  if  he  smiled  to  himself,  at  least, 

being  something  of  a  gentleman,  he  did  not  let  the 
smile  appear. 

After  a  long  moment  Bob  came  to  his  senses  to  re- 
mark: 

"Tom,  the  governor  has  some  very  particular,  as  I 
have  heard.  If  you  will  go  into  the  house,  the  butler 
will  attend  to  your  case." 

Tom  went. 

Bob  turned  to  her.  Through  the  leaves  of  the  vines 
a  shaft  of  spring  sunshine  fell  upon  her  face  and  hair. 
But  it  was  not  the  sunshine  from  above  that  transfig- 
ured her  to  his  eyes.  He  reached  out  and  touched  hef 
hand  gently,  reverently. 

"I  can't  believe  it.  ...  It  has  come  so  soon. 
.  .  .  Ah !  we  had  so  little  faith.  .  .  ." 

"Eleanor!  Eleanor!"  His  voice  was  low  and  husky. 

His  hand  fell  from  hers  and  his  head  went  up 
bravely. 

"I  have  been  newsboy,  mill-hand,  heeler,  grafter — > 
please  God,  that  last,  at  least,  is  ended !  I  don't  know 
what  crime  stained  my  birth.  I  don't  even  know  that 
I  have  a  right  to  the  name  I  bear.  But — I  love  you." 

"And  that  is  all  I  want,"  she  answered  simply. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  wait,  is  there — > 
Eleanor  ?" 

"There  is  none.  (You  are  all  I  have  in  the  world — 
Bob,  dear." 

As  she  spoke  his  name,  he  thrilled. 

"You  never  took  a  vacation,  did  you,  dear?" 

"Yes,  once.    When  I  was  sick." 

"O,  that  doesn't  count,  you  know.    .Will  you  take 


TRIUMPH  OF  THE  FORCE      401 

one  this  summer — with  me?  Just  one  little  week — if 
the  campaign  will  allow  it?" 

"We'll  make  the  campaign  allow  it."  His  laugh' 
rang  boyishly. 

"There's  a  place  I  know,  in  the  woods.  It  is  on  a 
river,  such  a  beautiful  river,  so  cool  and  clear  and  deep. 
The  woods  are  always  deliciously  fragrant  You  sit 
in  your  canoe  and  float  and  dream  all  day  long.  And 
at  night  you  light  your  camp-fire  on  the  water's  edge 
and  you  sit  by  it  and  watch  the  rippling  path  of  gold 
it  lays  along  the  river — and  count  the  stars  and  wonder, 
what  they  all  mean,  up  there — and  forget  that  there  is 
any  one  in  the  world — except  just  we  two — »" 

He  caught  her  closely  to  him. 

"I  haven't  kissed  you  yet — " 

They  had  forgotten  death. 

After  a  time  he  remembered. 

She  saw  that  his  thoughts  were  afar  off.  She  won- 
'dered  what  he  was  thinking. 

He  was  looking  into  the  years  ahead,  looking  with 
the  sure  knowledge  of  the  man  who  has  seen  the  test 
applied.  He  saw  the  struggle,  for  he  knew  the  enemy. 
He  saw  the  temptations  fought  and  overcome,  for  he 
knew  himself  at  last.  He  saw  the  ultimate  victory,  for 
he  knew  his  people.  His  heart  filled  with  his  longing 
and  purpose.  He,  who  had  done  so  little,  had  received 
the  reward  of  the  faithful  servant.  Henceforward  he 
would  measure  his  service  to  the  richness  of  the  reward 
that  was  his. 

She  saw  his  lips  move,  but  no  sound  fell.  She  read 
the  words. 


402         THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP 

"Let  me  serve !    Let  me  serve !" 
"Ah !"  she  cried.    "You  are  forgetting  me  already !" 
He  looked  down  into  her  eyes  and  drew  her  more 
closely  to  his  heart.    She  was  content. 
"Let  us  serve !" 

The  death  of  Murchell  brought  to  the  harassed  in- 
terests no  relief,  neither  did  it  bring  fear  to  the  people 
of  that  state.  For  both  knew  that,  on  guard,  between 
them,  stood  Bob  McAdoo. 


THE  END 


A  FEW  OF 

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OLD  CHESTER   TALES.     By  Margarei  Deland.     Illustrated 
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A  vivid  yet  delicate  portrayal  of  characters  in  an  old  New  England  town. 

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TOLD  BY  UNCLE  REMUS.    By  Joel  Chandler  Harris     Illus- 
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THE  CLIMBER.    By  E.  F.  Benson.     With  frontispiece. 

An  unsparing  analysis  of  an  ambitious  woman's  soul— a  woman  who 
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A  story  of  to-day,  telling  how  a  rich  girl  acquires  ideals  of  beautiful  and 
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trated by  Edmund  Magrath  and  W.  W.  Fawcett. 

A  relentless  portrayal  of  the  career  of  a  man  /ho  comes  under  the  influence 
of  a  beautiful  but  evil  woman ;  how  she  lures  him  on  and  on,  how  he 
struggles,  falls  and  rises,  only  to  fall  again  into  her  net,  make  a  story  of 
unflinching  realism. 

THE  SQUAW  MAN.     By  Julie  Opp  Faversham  and  Edwin 
Miiton  Royle.    Illustrated  with  scenes  frorr  the  play. 

A  glowing  story,  rapid  in  action,  bright  hi  dialogue  with  a  fine  courageous 
hero  and  a  beautiful  English  heroine. 

THE  GIPL  IN  WAITING.     By  Archibald  Eyre.     Illustrated 
with  scenes  from  the  play. 

A  droll  little  comedy  of  misunderstandings,  told  with  a  light  touch,  a  ven 
ftiresome  spirit  and  an  eye  for  human  oddities. 

THE   SCARLET   PIMPERNEL.     By  Baroness  Orczy.     Illus- 
trated with  scenes  from  the  play. 

A  realistic  story  of  the  days  of  the  French  Revolution,  abounding  in 
•Dramatic  incident,  with  a  young  English  soldier  of  fortune,  daring,  mysteri- 
ous as  the  hero. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

THE  MUSIC  MASTER.    By  Charles  Klein.     Illustrated 

by  John  Rae. 

This  marvelously  vivid  narrative  turns  upon  the  search  of  a  Ger-' 
»nan  musician  in  .New  York  for  his  little  daughter.  Mr.  Klein  has 
•fi'ell  portrayed  his  pathetic  struggle  with  poverty,  his  varied  expe-1 
riences  in  endeavoring  to  meet  the  demands  of  a  public  not  trained 
to  an  appreciation  of  the  classic,  and  his  final  great  hour  when,  in 
the  rapidly  shifting  events  of  a  big  city,  his  little  daughter,  now  a 
beautifnl  young  woman,  is  brought  to  his  very  door.  A  superb  bit 
of  fiction,  palpitating  with  the  life  of  the  great  metropolis.  Th? 
play  in  which  David  Warn  eld  scored  his  highest  success. 

DR.    LAVENDAR'S    PEpPLE.      By    Margaret   DelancO 

Illustrated  by  Lucius  Hitchcock. 

Mrs.  Deland  won  so  many  friends  through  Old  Chester  Tales 
that  this  volume  needs  no  introduction  beyond  its  title.  The  lova- 
ble doctor  is  more  ripened  in  this  later  book,  and  the  simple  come- 
dies and  tragedies  of  the  old  village  are  told  with  dramatic  charm. 

OLD  CHESTER  TALES.  By  Margaret  Deland.  Illustrated 
by  Howard  Pyle. 

Stories  portraying  with  delightful  humor  and  pathos  a  quaint  peo- 
ple in  a  sleepy  old  town.  Dr.  Lavendar,  a  very  human  and  lovable 
"preacher,"  is  the  connecting  link  between  these  dramatic  stories 
from  life. 

HE  FELL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HIS  WIFE.    By  E.  P.  Roe. 
With  frontispiece. 

The  hero  is  a  farmer — a  man  with  honest,  sincere  views  of  life. 
Beieft  of  his  wife,  his  home  is  cared  for  by  a  succession  of  domes- 
tics of  varying  degrees  of  inefficiency  until,  from  a  most  unpromis- 
ing source,  comes  a  young  woman  who  not  only  becomes  his  wife 
but  commands  his  respect  and  eventually  wins  his  love.  A  bright 
and  delicate  romance,  revealing  on  both  sides  a  love  that  surmounts 
all  difficulties  and  survives  the  censure  of  friends  as  well  as  the  bit- 
terness of  enemies. 
THE  YOKE.  By  Elizabeth  Miller. 

Against  the  historical  background  of  the  days  when  the  children 
of  Israel  were  delivered  from  the  bondage  of  Egypt,  the  author  ha& 
sketched  a  romance  of  compelling  charm.  A  biblical  novel  as  great 
as  any  since  "  Ben  Hur." 

SAUL  OF  TARSUS.    By  Elizabeth  Miller.    Illustrated  by 
Andre'  Castaigne. 

The  scenes  of  this  story  are  laid  in  Jerusalem,  Alexandria,  Roma 
and  Damascus.  The  Apostle  Paul,  the  Martyr  Stephen,  Herod 
Agrippa  and  the  Emperors  Tiberius  and  Caligula  are  among  the 
mighty  figures  that  move  through  the  pages.  Wonderful  descrip- 
tions, and  a  love  story  of  the  purest  and  noblest  type  mark  this 
most  remarkable  religious  romance. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

QUINCY    ADAMS    SAWYER.      A  Picture  of  New 
England  Home  Life.     With  illustrations  by  C.  W. 
Reed,  and  Scenes  Reproduced  from  the  Play. 
One  of  the  best  New  England  stories  ever  written.    It  is 
full  of  homely  human  interest  *  *  *  there  is  a  wealth  of  New 
England  village  character, scenes  and  incidents  *  *  *  forcibly, 
vividly  and  truthfully  drawn.     Few  books  have   enjoyed  a 
greater  sale  and  popularity.    Dramatized,  it  made  the  great- 
est rural  play  of  recent  times. 

THE  FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  QUINCY 
ADAMS  SAWYER.  By  Charles  Felton  Pidgin, 
Illustrated  by  Henry  Roth. 

All  who  love  honest  sentiment,  quaint  and  sunny  humort 
and  homespun  philosophy  will  find  these  "  Further  Adven- 
tures" ?i  book  after  their  own  heart. 

HALF  A  CHANCE.  By  Frederic  S.  Isham.  Illus- 
trated by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

The  thrill  of  excitement  will  keep  the  reader  in  a  state  of 
Suspense,  and  he  will  become  personally  concerned  from  the 
start,  as  to  the  central  character,  a  very  real  man  who  suffers, 
dares — and  achieves  1 

VIRGINIA   OF   THE   AIR    LANES.    By   Herbert 

Quick.    Illustrated  by  William  R.  Leigh. 
The  author  has  seized  the  romantic  moment  for  the  airship 
novel,  and  created  the  pretty  story  of  "  a  lover  and  his  lass  " 
contending  with  an  elderly  relative  for  the  monopoly  of  the 
ikies.    An  exciting  tale  of  adventure  in  midair. 

THE  GAME  AND  THE  CANDLE.     By  Eleanor  M. 

Ingram.    Illustrated  by  P.  D.  Johnson. 
The  hero  is  a  young  American,  who,  to  save  his  family  from 
poverty,  deliberately  commits  a  felony.    Then  follow  his  cap- 
ture and  imprisonment,  and  his  rescue  by  a  Russian  Grand 
Duke.    A  stirring  story,  rich  in  sentiment, 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.S  NEW  YORK 


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